Nothing In This World
by randomfan276
Summary: Eight years after leaving Beacon Hills and cutting off all contact with the Pack, Stiles is living a perfectly normal life as a deputy in a rural town. That is, until a certain strawberry-blonde banshee arrives in town, heralding a string of gruesome murders that will drag Stiles back into the world of the supernatural whether he likes it or not. (Stiles/OMC)
1. Prologue - Some Other Beginning's End

**Nothing In This World**

 **Prologue –Some Other Beginning's End**

He was striding toward him and grabbing his collar before he even realised he was angry.

"Where were you, Scott?" he yelled, and yeah, okay, now he could feel the rage flowing through him, making his limbs tremble as he gripped Scott so tightly that he could feel the blood draining from his fingers.

Stiles spun on his heel, slamming Scott bodily into the wall and then using the momentum to send him crashing to the floor. Later, he would realise that Scott must have been holding back, but right then he was too caught up in the anger making his head spin and the tearing pain in his chest to notice. So he didn't hesitate, instead bringing himself closer to Scott's face and yelling so loudly that his throat burned. "You trusted him, you believed him, so where were you?"

Scott finally responded, holding Stiles' shoulders firmly and pushing him back a few inches. Stiles snarled, trying to twist out of Scott's grip, but Scott wasn't letting go and he didn't have a hope of breaking his grasp.

"Stiles, please, just let me explain," Scott said in that earnest puppy-dog voice of his, and the words were fuel to Stiles' livid fire.

"Don't!" Stiles roared. He couldn't move his torso, but his legs were still free so he jerked his knee up and smashed it into Scott's groin with a viciousness that he hadn't realised he possessed. Scott's eyes widened, and he released him with a grunt. Stiles scrambled backward, throwing himself away from Scott and climbing to his feet.

Scott was doubled over on the floor, his features twisted by pain and disbelief. The expression was remarkably similar to that night outside the animal clinic, before Stiles had lifted the wrench and Scott had flinched backwards in fear and Stiles' world had collapsed around him. That night was seared into Stiles' memory, and could almost feel the way his breathing had come in rapid bursts and his chest had split open with terror at the thought of losing his best friend. But despite everything, after Scott had closed the door behind him and Stiles was left with the echo of his words ringing in his ears, a small part of him had desperately clung to the small thread of hope that maybe _something_ could be salvaged, that thirteen years of friendship couldn't shatter so completely.

Now, Scott lay panting on the floor in front of him, and all Stiles felt was rage.

"Just stay away from me, okay?" he demanded in a rough voice.

Scott finally raised his eyes to meet Stiles' gaze, and whatever he saw there caused his eyes to widen in shock. "Stiles," he started in a small voice, but Stiles didn't want to hear it.

"Just go," Stiles bit out, and then he walked away.

Hours later, as he traced the outline of his dad's fingers and listened to the comforting rhythm of the heart monitor, Stiles noticed the beginnings of guilt swirling in his stomach. It was an all-too-familiar pattern, and he knew that with time the guilt would fester, building until it consumed him and he was forced to bend to its will.

 _But no,_ Stiles thought. _Enough_. There had been too much hurt, too much blame, and he was sick of feeling guilty. So maybe he had been a reckless idiot when he dragged Scott into the woods in search of a dead body; he didn't deserve this.

His father's chest was rising and falling at a steady rate, so Stiles narrowed his world until that was all that existed. All the emotion, all the confusion faded into the background as he timed his breaths with his father's. Enough was enough.

* * *

"You're sure about this, kiddo?"

Stiles bit his lip, a nervous habit that he had never been able to shake. He exhaled softly, glad that his back was to his dad so he couldn't see his expression. "Yeah, Dad," he said, "I'm sure."

There was a shuffling noise behind him, then a gentle pressure on his shoulder and Stiles let himself be turned. His dad was watching him with shrewd eyes, and Stiles shifted his weight uncomfortably. Thankfully, it only lasted for a few seconds before his dad's face softened. "I just want you to know that we don't have to do this if you've changed your mind," he said carefully.

A warmth spread through him and Stiles couldn't stop a grateful smile from appearing on his face. Sometimes, it was nice to have it reaffirmed that people still cared about him, even if that list extended only to his dad.

"I know," Stiles said, and for once he was sure of himself. "I haven't changed my mind. When was the last time you were actually happy here?"

His dad narrowed his eyes at him and Stiles stared right back, raising one eyebrow in defiance. It was a trick he had perfected as a child, and it worked like a charm every time. As expected, his dad relented after only a few moments and gave Stiles a quick one-armed hug. "Alright then," he said, before releasing him. "But I'm nominating you to carry the box of kitchen stuff out to the car. My back's killing me, and I don't feel like stopping by the hospital on our way out of town."

Stiles smiled and clapped his dad on his shoulder as the Sheriff walked out of the room. Turning back to the box in front of him, Stiles considered his options. It was almost full, just an inch or so spare at the top. He could fit something else in there if he tried. Stiles stepped to his right, glancing around his room for any possible objects. It was stripped bare, but no doubt there were a few bits and pieces he had missed. Dropping to his knees, Stiles put his head to the ground to check under the bed. Sure enough, he spied a few dark outlines under there, and with a few grunts, multiple bangs and the occasional muttered curse he finally managed to pull them out.

Sticking to his hand were some candy wrappers from a brand Stiles hadn't eaten since he was twelve – ugh, gross. Stiles wrinkled his nose in disgust as he picked them off his hand and dropped them to the floor. Turning his attention to the other objects he had pulled out, Stiles felt a fond nostalgia warm his chest. There was a video game disc that he had spent months turning the house inside out searching for before his dad finally gave in and bought him a replacement. A book that he had started when he was fifteen and lost interest in, and hadn't even noticed when it disappeared. An old, faded lacrosse glove that he had accused Scott of stealing when they were fourteen. It was one of their rare real fights, and Stiles had given Scott the silent treatment for a week before he heard rumours of an old hermit living in an unexplored area of the Preserve and had forgiven Scott in the excitement of dragging him out into the woods to search for it.

Stiles placed the glove carefully onto the carpet, studying it for a moment. The memory had come out of nowhere, and there was a dull ache nestled in his chest. It was different, though, to his usual pains. When he was anxious, he felt as though his heart would beat its way out of his chest. Despair gave way to a tearing sensation, as though he was falling apart. This was different. This was the ache that he felt on those odd occasions when his thoughts wandered to his mother, when he remembered her laughter and missed her with an intensity that he didn't think he could bear. This was the ache that he felt when he thought about Allison, when he remembered her smile and her bright eyes and he realised that he would never see them again.

It was grief, and Stiles swallowed slightly before forcing the feelings aside. Grief Stiles could deal with; he'd had more practice than most.

Picking up the glove, Stiles tossed it into the garbage bag beside him.

Then he folded the top of the box closed, taped it down firmly, and picked it up.

When the door closed behind him for the final time, the sound reverberated in time with the ache in his chest. Stiles took a deep breath, then focussed on putting one foot in front of the other. One step at a time, until the grief faded away.

He'd done it before, and he could damn well do it again.


	2. And He Goes To Work At Nine

**Chapter 1 – And He Goes To Work At Nine**

"Dude, go to sleep."

"What?" Stiles glanced up from his book, blinking as his gaze landed on his roommate. He frowned when he realised he could only just make out Luke's slender outline and a faint gleam of dirty blonde hair through the darkness. "What time is it?"

There was a soft snort from Luke's direction, and Stiles narrowed his eyes at him before reaching for his phone. The screen was almost blinding when it lit up, and Stiles' eyes widened as he shot up from the couch. "Four o'clock? Jesus Christ, is that for real?"

"Yep," Luke said, sounding far too amused for Stiles' liking. "You've got to stop doing this."

"I know," Stiles groaned in reply, carefully marking his page before closing the book and setting it on the counter. "I just got caught up in reading."

"Yeah, tell me about it. Adderall's a wonderful invention, isn't it?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. "It's not the Adderall, douche. It's interesting, that's all."

"You have some strange ideas about what's interesting."

"Yeah, yeah." Now that he was out of his zone, Stiles could feel the edges of tiredness pulling at his eyelids, and didn't bother trying to hold back a yawn. Still, the awareness that he had to up in less than three hours was tugging at him, making him frustratingly jazzed, and Stiles realised with a sinking sensation that despite his fatigue he wouldn't be able to sleep. Goddamnit.

Maybe all he needed was something to help him relax. Stiles eyed Luke curiously. "What are you doing up, anyway?"

Luke lifted an empty glass toward Stiles in a mock-salute. "Just getting some water."

"Want to get something else?" Stiles waggled his eyebrows, mouth quirking in a small grin.

Luke made a noise that was a strange cross between a laugh and a groan. "Seriously? Its four a.m., dude."

"And?"

For a moment Luke hesitated, lips parted as he tried to come up with a reply. Stiles could almost see the moment that he gave up, before he finally rolled his eyes and set his glass down on the table. "Alright, but only because I'm up."

"Yeah, you are," Stiles quipped, and Luke laughed.

"Shut up and put that mouth to good use."

So Stiles did.

* * *

Sure enough, the rest of the morning was hell.

Stiles fortunately had desk duty, so – wait, did he just think that? Stiles shook his head, incredulous. No matter how hard he tried, he never seemed to be able to get on top of his paperwork, so whenever he had an admin day he always ended up buried to his eyeballs in unfiled reports and request forms. He had a strong suspicion that someone else in the station had devised a way of landing all of their work on his desk, but try as he might Stiles had never been able to prove his theory. So once a fortnight he ended up hunched over a cramped desk, fighting off papercuts and a throbbing headache and wondering why the hell no one ever thought to mention _this_ in the cop shows.

Today, though, Stiles was grateful for the work. At the very least, it was quiet, and if he was making his way through the piles of paper slower than he should be, no one was around to notice. He pulled the latest report in front of him, hiding a yawn behind a hand and struggling to focus on the letters on the page. They swam, and Stiles frowned. Coffee. Coffee would fix everything.

Pushing back his chair, Stiles grabbed his mug and made his way out toward the kitchen. The station was in the middle of renovations, and the main door to the tea room was currently out of action. As a result, anyone wanting food or drink had to awkwardly edge their way past the front desk, avoiding the eyes of all the locals waiting at reception for their crimes to be solved, and pretend as though they were on their way to hunt down an important lead rather than a cup of coffee. It had been that way for all of a day and half, and already there had been four complaints put in by deputies. There were no plans to change it, though, with the word from above being that the situation was temporary and everyone would have to deal with it until the renovations were done.

Stiles made it into the tea room without incident, and sighed with pleasure as he filled his cup and inhaled deeply. He was feeling more energised already, and he smiled a little as his thoughts drifted back to the events of the morning. It had been more than satisfying, and he had come with an intensity he hadn't felt since he was a teenager. There was something different about Luke lately, and Stiles couldn't quite put his finger on it. Sex with him had always been fun, but lately there was a certain thrill to it that Stiles hadn't felt in a long time. He couldn't stop smiling afterward, and Luke had a certain gentleness to his touch that hadn't been there before. It was interesting. Maybe Luke was getting in a bit of practice with someone else.

The thought jarred, and Stiles frowned. For some reason, the idea of Luke with someone else didn't sit right with him. It was strange, since they'd both broken off their arrangement for other relationships in the past. Hell, there had been a whole year there where Luke had fallen head over heels for a girl named Eliza and Stiles had suffered through the worst case of blue balls he had had since he lost his virginity. It had sucked, but he had been happy for them, and in the end that mattered more than his libido. So why was he suddenly feeling upset at the thought of Luke sleeping with someone else?

Stiles inhaled sharply. _Oh no,_ he thought, eyes wide as he shook his head erratically. _Fuck no._ Stiles had always congratulated himself on being able to separate sex from emotion – hell, he and Luke were living proof of that. Four years of casual sex and still going strong – beat that, Romeo.

His heart was thudding in his chest, and Stiles tried to calm himself down without success. Everyone had always told them that it would come crashing down eventually, and Stiles and Luke had always laughed it off. They were convinced, for some stupid reason that Stiles couldn't for the life of him remember, that they were going to beat the odds. But now that he thought about it, Stiles' thoughts lately were constantly drifting back to Luke, and when he saw him a warmth would unfold in his chest that definitely wasn't there for anyone else.

Shit. He was developing feelings for his roommate-slash-best friend-slash-fuck buddy. What the hell was he supposed to do with that?

The door swung open and Johnson entered, a tall, rail-thin brunette in uniform. He gave Stiles a brief nod before heading to the fridge and taking out something that smelled like it died a week ago. Stiles nodded jerkily in return, trying to calm his pounding heart and steady his breathing before the other cop noticed. Of course he would have a fucking romantic revelation in the middle of the half-torn-apart tea room at work. Real smart, Stilinski, well done.

Johnson popped his lunch in the microwave and the smell intensified, so Stiles took that as his cue to leave. He had barely started his coffee, so he took his mug with him, making his way out the small side-door and carefully keeping his eyes on his feet as he headed back to the bullpen.

He was almost there when he heard it.

"Stiles? _Stiles?"_

Stiles blinked, frowning as he turned. No one called him Stiles at the station, it was always Stilinski. And that voice was oddly familiar.

A woman was standing before the counter, eyes wide with surprise, and Stiles froze.

" _Lydia?"_

Lydia's hair was a slightly darker shade of red, but otherwise she looked the same. The same small stature, green eyes, and slight curl to her hair that had made Stiles fall in love with her all those years ago.

The moment stretched out to eternity, and Stiles stared at her in shock, fumbling for something to say. Unfortunately, Lydia beat him to it.

"Let me guess, your phone died and you forgot your email password?"

Stiles recoiled as though he had been slapped, mouth dropping open in shock. He was acutely aware that the two deputies at the front desk were watching him intently, just waiting for him to give the word to have Lydia removed. In his periphery, he could see a few other bystanders watching the interaction with unbridled curiosity on their faces.

There was a sharp pain in his chest that Stiles hadn't felt in years, and he swallowed past a lump in his throat. Fuck. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, holding Lydia's gaze. _Fuck you,_ he thought, suddenly furious. _I had the sense to get out. You don't get to be mad at me for that._

He couldn't say that, though, not without causing a fuss and creating an office rumour that would circulate for years. Hell, he would already be the talk of the station for weeks, he just knew it.

Reigning himself in, Stiles nodded to Lydia and turned away.

"Stiles, wait," he heard, and the pain in his chest increased, but Stiles kept walking, stepping though the door to bullpen and closing it firmly behind him.

Lydia had no right to show up in his life again, and he had work to do.

Picking up the report he had abandoned earlier, Stiles took a shaky swallow of his coffee and forced Lydia out of his mind, focussing instead on the inky letters. For once, his body worked with him and he actually managed to work steadily for three hours straight. He even made a noticeable dent in the pile of papers on his left, and Stiles felt himself relax as he lost himself in the job.

He was so caught up in what he was doing, in fact, that when a hand touched his shoulder Stiles jumped out of his seat with a shout, biting off a swear word as papers went flying. Spinning, he noticed Johnson standing behind him, raising an eyebrow at his reaction.

"Calm down, Stilinski, the war ended years ago."

Stiles rolled his eyes, focussing on calming his pounding heart. "What do you want, Johnson?"

"Boss wants to see you in his office."

Stiles frowned, forehead wrinkling even as his pulse gradually slowed. "Why?"

Johnson shrugged rather than replying, walking across the room to where his desk was situated without another word. Stiles stamped down on the annoyance building within him, smoothing his features before he said something that would get him into trouble. Johnson wasn't a bad cop or a bad partner, he just wasn't the friendliest guy in the world. Stiles could deal with that, usually. Some days, though, he really wanted to throw the nearest heavy object at Johnson's head.

Pushing the thought out of his mind, Stiles paused to replace the papers that had blown off of his desk before making his way to the back of the bullpen. The Sheriff was seated in his usual chair, the lines on his face deeper than usual and his expression grave as he spoke with the two people standing before him. Their backs were to him, but even so Stiles recognised Detectives Coulson and Brady.

Coulson was large enough to loom over most people in the station, and the first time Stiles had met him he had swallowed nervously, absolutely dwarfed by the man. His looks were deceiving, though, and Stiles had witnessed Coulson show a kindness to strangers that was rarely seen amongst cops who had been working long enough to have optimism burned out by cynicism. He had come to consider Coulson a friend, and they had shared a few quiet drinks together where Stiles had opened up to a degree that he would have regretted had he been with anyone less dependable. But Coulson was a man of his word, and Stiles trusted him with his life.

Brady made a stark contrast to the man, being a petite auburn-haired woman with delicate features that made her unanimously win the award of sexiest cop in the county. When she had found out about the poll, she had raised an eyebrow, hunted down the deputy who created it, and sweetly offered to show him what she was really worth in the gym. Then she had kicked his ass to hell and back in front of half a dozen of his buddies, which had done nothing to lessen her appeal but had at least stopped people from discussing it in a place where she could overhear.

That the detectives were in town made this meeting all the more unusual. Stiles couldn't help the curiosity burning in him as he knocked on the door and entered the room. Coulson greeted him with a smile, Brady frowned in his general direction and the Sheriff just looked tired. "You wanted to see me?"

"Have a seat, Stilinski."

Glancing at the standing detectives, Stiles' heart fluttered a little as he made his way to the empty chair in front of the desk. "Has something happened?"

"Not yet." The Sheriff sighed before continuing. "There's been two murders that have taken place in neighbouring towns, which Detectives Coulson and Brady have been investigating."

"I remember," Stiles replied. "It was in the news. A teenage girl was found locked inside her house with her eyes gauged out, and a twenty-year old man had his liver stolen."

Brady shifted beside him, and her expression was pinched when she spoke. "There's a little more to it than that. We've been doing some digging, and it looks like this guy's been stealing body parts from people for a while now. He started out with isolated people, homeless people, those who wouldn't be missed. God knows how many people he's killed at this point."

Stiles' stomach roiled in disgust, and he worked to smooth his features as his lip reflexively curled. "Don't tell me he's made his way here."

Coulson's deep voice was soft when he spoke. "We received an anonymous tip a week ago that the next victim would be from this town. The informant was surprisingly helpful, she even gave us a name – Katie Warren."

"Katie?" Stiles repeated. He could feel a surge of adrenaline flow through him, and his heart started pounding as he stared at Coulson with wide eyes. "I know her. She's a barista at one of the coffee shops in town, trying to save up enough money to go to college next year."

The Sherriff grunted, and his voice was grim when he spoke. "We couldn't verify the informant and I didn't want to start a panic in town, so I've been keeping quiet. I let Katie know, and I've had two deputies tailing her since the call came in. So far, nothing."

"Okay," Stiles said slowly. "How quickly does this guy move from one victim to the next?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" Brady said, frustration coming through in her voice. "We were having that exact discussion a few days ago. The last two victims were killed within a day of each other. How long do we keep tailing her when we don't even know if the tip is real?"

"We eventually decided that the best solution would be for Katie to just leave town for a month or two," the Sheriff concluded. "She left on a bus this morning."

Okay. Stiles frowned, trying to figure out where he fit into this story, but none of this seemed to be making sense. Instead, he asked, "So the informant was just making things up?"

"Or the informant was telling the truth, but our security detail discouraged the killer from attacking," Brady countered.

"Either way, Katie's safe, now, right?" Stiles responded. "So, everyone goes home and has a few drinks and calls it a day?"

Brady snorted, and the Sheriff raised his eyebrow, looking at Stiles disapprovingly. Stiles winced, hoping he could convey an apology with his eyes. The Sheriff was a great boss, and Stiles didn't want to make him look bad in front of the detectives. Stiles might consider them friends, but they were still outsiders to the station and reputation is everything in the world of law enforcement.

It was Coulson who responded, however. "The problem is that we got another anonymous tip yesterday. The same informant as last time. She congratulated us on saving Katie and then told us a new name of an apparent next victim. Ross Dalby."

Stiles clenched his teeth in frustration. Somehow, he knew that the sentiment was shared by everyone else in the room. "This is ridiculous. We can't just tail everyone that this person tells us to."

"Exactly," the Sheriff agreed. "So we told her to verify her identity if she wanted us to listen to her. She didn't even need to give us a reason to believe her, but we need to know who she is. She showed up at the station this morning."

There was a pause, and finally the pieces clicked together. Stiles could almost see his world fracturing around him. Pushing back a wave of dread, he instead groaned and buried his face in his hands.

There was silence from the room, and finally Stiles lowered his hands, peeking out at the three inquisitive faces watching him. "Let me guess: Lydia Martin."

Brady aimed a finger-gun at him, miming pulling a trigger. "Got it in one."

"Word around the station is that she's a jilted lover of yours." Coulson didn't even try to keep the amusement out of his voice, and Stiles glared at him as he flushed.

"Sheriff, you need to give your deputies more work to do. They obviously have way too much time to gossip."

The Sheriff sighed. "Stilinski, this woman is making claims that could potentially save a man's life if we take them seriously. You clearly know her, and I don't care what's happened between you two. We need to know what you know about her."

Stiles hesitated, thinking through his possible answers. He couldn't possibly tell them the truth. Coulson would think he was joking, Brady would probably try to have him committed and the Sheriff would give him that disappointed-Dad look that always made Stiles squirm in his boots. But at the same time, if Lydia was predicting a man's death, Stiles couldn't let the Sheriff think she was a prankster.

So, a partial truth, then. He chose his words carefully when he finally spoke. "Honestly, I haven't seen Lydia in nearly a decade," he began. "We went to high school together, that's all. I moved out of town in my senior year and I lost contact with her after that."

"What was she like?" Brady asked.

"She was…" Jesus, where to even start? Stiles bit his lip, considering. "She was – is – the smartest person I've ever met. And she would happily put her life on the line if it meant saving someone else, even if that person was a stranger. She's not the type to send us on a wild goose chase."

"So you're saying we should trust her?" The Sheriff was quiet when he spoke, and when Stiles met his eyes he held his gaze steadily.

"Yes."

There was a moment of silence, and the Sheriff nodded. Then he looked toward the detectives. "You heard him. I'll send Mendez and Poole to tail Ross Dalby. Did you want to have the talk with him, or should I?"

"We will," Brady said. Her eyes were still on Stiles' face though, and her gaze was piercing. "One question, Stilinski. Any idea where she's getting her information?"

It took everything he had for Stiles to stop himself from shifting uncomfortably under her stare, and he forced himself to meet her eyes blandly. "Not a clue," he said, voice steady. "Haven't seen her in years, remember?"

Brady narrowed her eyes, and Stiles couldn't shake the feeling that she didn't believe him. There was a long moment, then she thankfully shook her head and stepped toward the door, and the detectives made their way out of the room.

Stiles collapsed back into his seat, limbs like jelly. Shit. What had Lydia gotten herself into?


	3. Seasons Came and Changed The Time

**Chapter 2 – Seasons Came and Changed The Time**

Luke had been talking for a good ten minutes now, and Stiles had a feeling the story would be hilarious if only he had the ability to listen. There was a student teacher at the high school where Luke worked who was innocently inappropriate, crossing lines on a daily basis with apparently no idea what she was doing. Her activities had become increasingly outrageous as the semester went on, and Luke had spent far too many hours entertaining Stiles with stories of her antics.

Right now, though, Stiles couldn't find it in him to focus. His mind was still whirling from the events of the morning, and he was filled with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, a part of him was glowing with elation at seeing Lydia again, an instinctive response that took him by surprise, although, really, it probably shouldn't have. He held no grudge against her, after all, and after leaving Beacon Hills Stiles had missed her more than he ever anticipated. Her reaction to seeing him had stung, though, leaving a strange mix of guilt and anger fighting for dominance in his gut. And confusing it all further was the murders, which were tugging at a morbid curiosity that Stiles had thought long buried. All in all, he felt slightly nauseous and had a throbbing headache – a winning combination.

"And then I walked in on her having sex with a freshman."

"Wait, what? The fuck, Luke?"

Luke raised an eyebrow in reply. "Just checking to see if you were listening. Don't worry, her student's fantasies are still just fantasies."

Stiles sighed, pushing his half-eaten plate away from him and flopping back into his seat. "I'm sorry," he said wearily. "It's just been a weird day."

"How so?" Luke was watching him carefully, and Stiles stamped down on a surge of affection for him. Good old Luke, always ready to listen.

"I ran into an old friend at the station. I haven't seen her since high school, and when she saw me…well, she wasn't exactly friendly."

Luke frowned, looking down at his plate. "You never talk about high school," he observed.

"No," Stiles agreed. He gathered his thoughts before continuing. If he could talk to anyone, he could talk to Luke, and maybe speaking the words aloud would help. "You know that I spent my whole childhood in the same town. Then a lot of shit went down during my senior year, and Dad and I moved away. I never spoke to anyone from Beacon Hills again after that."

"It's normal to lose contact with friends after moving," Luke pointed out.

"I didn't just lose contact, though," Stiles explained. He couldn't help but feel slightly ashamed when he thought about it now, but at the time he had been so certain that it was the right thing to do that he hadn't even hesitated. "I cut off all contact. I changed my phone number, my email address. I blocked them on Skype, and shut down my Facebook page, which for the record is incredibly difficult to do, but I was determined stop them from being able to find me."

"Okay, so maybe you were an asshole," Luke corrected.

Stiles glared at him. Luke raised his hands in defence.

"Let me finish. Maybe you were an asshole, but it was fricking high school, man. Everyone does stupid stuff in high school, and there's an unspoken rule that once you graduate, you live and let live. Your friend isn't allowed to still be mad about it, society has spoken."

Stiles pursed his lips, eyeing Luke as he thought. He seemed sincere, and Stiles took a moment to consider a world where, instead of Stiles leaving town, it was Lydia who took off without a word and dumped her phone on an empty highway after six hours of non-stop text alerts and missed calls. Live and let live? No, he couldn't blame Lydia for being angry with him. He couldn't even imagine how pissed he would be in her situation.

Shaking his head, Stiles let out a sigh. "I don't know how to explain it," he admitted. "She's right to be upset, in a way. I had my reasons for leaving, and they were good ones – even now, I don't really regret leaving. But still, I never told anyone I was going and I never said goodbye, so in the end…I don't know."

Luke reached one tanned hand across the table and covered Stiles' own, giving it a small squeeze. "I don't know what to tell you, man, except that no matter what happens, I'll have your back. And the rest of you, too, if you catch my drift."

A short burst of laughter escaped Stiles, and the weight of his inner conflict immediately lessened. Luke was grinning at him, and Stiles couldn't help but grin back, his mood instantly improved. "And that's why I love you," he said without thinking. And – shit. What did he just say?

The words seemed to fly right past Luke, who merely raised an eyebrow in response. "My incredible sex drive?" he teased.

Stiles shook his head. "More that you're easy," he deadpanned. "No foreplay. I like that."

"I'll be sure to pass that message along to your next boyfriend."

Stiles felt the smile slip off his face, his small bubble of happiness vanishing.

Luke was watching him in confusion. "Stiles? What is it?"

Stiles took a deep breath, mind racing, and – _oh, fuck it. Just do it, Stilinski_. He forced the words out before he could second-guess himself. "I've been thinking about that, actually," he said, heart fluttering with anxiety, and he picked up his pace, hoping to get the words out before he lost his nerve. "Maybe there doesn't have to be a next boyfriend."

A heavy silence filled the room and – damn, Stiles had no idea that his neighbourhood could be so quiet. Where were the cars, the noisy dog across the street, the crying babies? He would kill for some background noise right now. Anything to drown out the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

Luke's face was carefully smooth, and Stiles' heart plummeted before Luke had a chance to reply. "I'm sorry," Stiles said, shaking his head and pushing his chair back from the table. "Just forget I ever said anything."

"Stiles."

Luke's voice was soft but firm, and when Stiles turned to look at him he met Stiles' eyes squarely. His hand was still resting on the table, and Luke started playing with Stiles' fingers idly as he spoke, choosing his words carefully. "Stiles, you know you mean the world to me. You're my best friend, and the one person I know I can always rely on."

Stiles' vision was a little blurry, and he blinked back tears furiously, breaking Luke's gaze to glare at the carpet. Great. He was getting a break up speech without actually having the relationship to start with. "If you say that it's not me and it's all you, I'm going to punch you in the face," he said bluntly.

Luke stopped playing with his fingers, instead giving them a small squeeze. "It's neither of us," he replied. "I'm just not where you are right now, Stiles. I wish I could be, but I'm just not." He took a deep breath, and for the first time sounded shaky when he spoke. "I'm sorry."

There was a hard lump in Stiles' throat and he swallowed past it with difficulty. Goddamn Luke. Why did he always have to be so understanding? This would be much easier if he had taken the news like an asshole.

"It's okay," Stiles managed to say. He stood abruptly, pulling his hand back from Luke's. "I'm just gonna…" he trailed off, jerking a thumb in the direction of his bedroom, and stumbled toward the door without waiting for a reply.

Fuck.

* * *

Protection detail officially sucked balls.

That was pretty much the only conclusion that Stiles could draw from the last four hours of sitting in Ross Dalby's small house, trying to blend in with the furniture and not intrude on the poor man's life. It very quickly became apparent that Dalby had a good dose of social anxiety, and had no idea what to do with himself when there were two virtual strangers parked in his living room. In the end, he settled for playing on his computer and offering them cups of tea every half hour, which Stiles had eventually accepted in an attempt to lessen the awkwardness of the whole situation.

It didn't help that Johnson was partnered up with him again. God only knew why the Sheriff kept pairing the two of them together – literally any other cop in the station was easier to talk to. Johnson had said all of two words to Stiles the whole morning, and the minute they reached Dalby's home he had done a quick sweep of the building with an efficiency that was actually kind of annoying before manoeuvring into the open-plan living room that stretched the length of the house and planting himself on a chair facing the front door. He hadn't moved since.

So, yeah. Stiles could cross 'bodyguard' off his list of potential jobs when this whole law enforcement thing eventually went south. He didn't think he had been this bored in a long time.

The worst part of the situation was that Stiles had time to think. That had never done him favours in the past – thinking lead to over-thinking, and over-thinking lead to Stiles becoming an anxious wreck of self-doubt and paranoia. And the more he thought about the events of last night, the more he was kicking himself for opening his damn mouth to Luke in the first place.

That morning had been strange. After his confession, Stiles had managed to avoid Luke for the rest of the night, but when he arose for breakfast Luke was already in the kitchen. The conversation had been full of forced cheer, with Luke clearly doing his best to act as though nothing had changed despite the fact that everything had changed. Stiles hadn't realised how many of their conversations revolved around bad sex jokes until one accidentally slipped out, and the resulting awkward silence had seemed to stretch on forever. And then there the noticeable absence of all of their instinctive touches, which at some point over the last five years had morphed from friendly shoulder-claps and one-armed hugs to casual hand-holding and butt-slapping. There had been an obvious distance between them that morning, and Stiles already missed Luke so much it physically hurt.

And Jesus Christ, that was just one breakfast. How were they supposed to survive living together if just one breakfast was so awkward?

Stiles lowered his eyes to the ground, swallowing his misery as a dull ache swept through his limbs and his stomach roiled in protest. He shifted his feet on the floor, focussing on the sound of the clock ticking on the wall as he tried to pull himself back together. It helped a little, so Stiles slunk lower in his chair, took a steady slow breath, and forced himself to relax.

A soft _'snick'_ jolted Stiles from his thoughts and he straightened, instantly alert as his head jerked toward the noise. The ache vanished and his muscles tensed in anticipation. He stood, wincing at the slight creak of the chair as his weight lifted from it, and eased his gun from his holster. From his periphery, he could see Johnson following his cue, and before him Dalby had paused at his computer, staring at the cops with wide eyes.

Stiles caught Dalby's eye and gestured for him to remain silent. His gun was a comfortable weight in his palm as he flicked off the safety and moved swiftly across the carpeted floor. He made sure to put Dalby on his six as he approached the far wall. The house was situated on the outskirts of town, and set into the wall was a beautiful bay window overlooking a small yard that backed into dense woods. The curtains to the window were closed, but stirred slightly with the breeze filtering into the room.

Stiles paused before the window, settling into an easy stance and raising his gun in a well-practiced two-handed grip. For a moment, everything was still. He could hear the faint sound of his breathing, but otherwise the room was silent.

A dark outline emerged behind the curtain, and Stiles recognised a distinctly human-shaped head and shoulders. He tightened his grip on his weapon, shifting so the barrel was aimed directly at the shadow's head. The shadow moved, and the curtain twitched. And then all hell broke loose.

"Police! Freeze!" Stiles shouted, and the curtain jerked to reveal a figure clad in dark clothing jolting upward in shock. Dark brown eyes met Stiles' own from beneath a black balaclava, before tearing away from his gaze.

The figure twisted, dragging the curtain behind him and obscuring the view as he jumped down from the window. Cursing, Stiles ripped away the curtain and scrambled out of the window after him. There was only a three foot drop to the ground, so he landed on his feet, but when he looked up the figure was sprinting directly toward the treeline and was only a yard or two away from safety. Stiles lifted his gun deliberately and didn't hesitate, taking barely a second to aim before he squeezed hard on the trigger.

There was a deafening bang – and Jesus Christ, now Stiles remembered why they had earmuffs at the range, he was going to be shouting for days – and his arms vibrated with the force of the recoil. Across the yard, a tree exploded in a shower of bark less than a foot away from the figure's head. The figure let out a yell – definitely a male, then – and stumbled, crashing to the ground. Stiles launched into motion, running flat-out across the yard toward him.

He was almost at the treeline when the man twisted onto his side. Stiles' eyes automatically flicked down the man's torso to follow the motion, so he had just enough time to recognise a Beretta in the man's hand, barrel aiming directly at Stiles' chest, when for the second time in as many minutes there was a deafening _crack._

Pain exploded in Stiles' right arm, and _holy shit that hurt._ Stiles couldn't bite back a shout, and he lost his aim on his attacker as he flinched backward. He dropped his gaze just long enough to see a gash in his shoulder and warm blood soaking through his sleeve, before gritting his teeth and raising his weapon. The man was disappearing between the trees, and Stiles took a couple of shaky steps forward before coming to halt as Johnson blew past him, hot on the figure's heels.

Voices were chattering from his radio, and Stiles listened for long enough to realise that Johnson must have called in to report the situation to dispatch. Hesitating, Stiles glanced back toward the house where their charge was left unprotected, and then toward the trees where Johnson was chasing after an armed gunman without support. Well, that decision made itself. Ignoring the screaming pain his shoulder, Stiles followed in Johnson's wake.

The temperature dropped noticeably as Stiles crossed into the shade, and there was an eerie stillness to the air as the background noise from the road was obliterated. He could hear the sound of footsteps, and stopped to hone in on it. They seemed to be coming from deeper into the woods and slightly to his left, so Stiles took off in that direction, pausing every now and again to listen and make sure he was still going the right way.

Five minutes later, Stiles was breathing heavily. The pain had spread from beyond the gash in his shoulder, shooting down his arm in bursts of agony and making his hand twitch involuntarily. He was desperately trying not to think about the fact that he probably wouldn't even be able to fire his gun at this rate, not with any degree of accuracy, but it was getting harder to ignore. Plus, his thoughts kept drifting back to the uncomfortable fact that Dalby was still back at the house, hopefully safe but with his first line of defence nowhere near close enough to be of use.

Stiles paused, taking a deep breath in and holding it as he strained his ears. The rustling sounds before him seemed to have quieted down, but there was a distinctive sound of footfalls from his right, and as he listened the sounds became louder. Someone was coming.

Stiles squared his shoulders, settling his weight comfortably, and tried to lift his Glock. He made it about halfway before his shoulder started screaming in agony, and he couldn't help but release a small gasp of pain. Blinking back tears – because seriously, blurred vision was the absolute last thing Stiles needed right now, how could his body betray him like that? – Stiles took a shaky breath, then grit his teeth tightly. _Come on Stiles, you've been through worse, you can do this_ , he reminded himself, and then he forced himself to raise his gun.

His aim was far from steady, but it was better than nothing. The footsteps were still approaching and Stiles tried to quiet his harsh breaths, curling his finger around the trigger and deliberately ignoring the pounding of his heart. There was a pause, then an unmistakeable rustling of leaves directly before him, and then a figure emerged.

For a fraction of a second, Stiles' finger hovered over the trigger, then he registered the uniform and familiar crop of Johnson's dark hair. Heart hammering, Stiles let out a small yelp of surprise and jerked his gun upward and away from his partner.

Johnson's gaze landed on Stiles and his eyes widened as he lifted his arms in a reflexive please-don't-shoot-me gesture. Stiles could only imagine how he must look, with his right arm drenched in blood, shaky and swaying, and eyes widened Jack Nicholson-style with adrenaline.

"Woah, Stilinski, you okay?" Johnson's voice actually sounded genuinely worried. Despite everything, Stiles couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. In all the time he had known Johnson, this might just be the most emotion he'd ever seen him express.

Realising that Johnson was waiting for an answer, Stiles relaxed his stance and took stock of himself before replying. "I've been better," he finally said, honestly. The world was swaying a little bit – or maybe it was just Stiles that was swaying. Now that he was looking at the ground (and for that matter, why was he looking at the ground?), he could see a small patch of leaves that was soaked in dark red blood. Stiles blinked, and then turned slightly to glance behind him. Okay, that was definitely his blood, then. There was a narrow trail of it winding through the trees behind him.

"Hey, look at that," Stiles said, surprised. "I think I pulled a Hansel and Gretel."

"Okay, Stilinski, why don't you put your gun away before you accidentally shoot yourself in the foot."

Stiles stared at Johnson in confusion, and then finally lowered his gaze to look at his right hand, which was still loosely curled around his Glock. There was a bright red film coating his hand and – oh, right, the safety was still off. The barrel was moving all over the place as his hand twitched involuntarily, and, okay, maybe Johnson had a point. He really was going to shoot himself in the foot if he wasn't careful.

Stiles flicked on the safety, then swapped the gun into his left hand. Getting it into its holster from that angle was awkward, but he managed it after only two failed attempts. Finally, Stiles felt it slip into place, and when he was done he realised that Johnson had moved closer, and for some reason had removed his shirt. Johnson zipped up his jacket over his bare chest, and wadded his shirt into a ball before looking up to meet Stiles' gaze.

"Uh – Johnson? What are you doing?"

Johnsons didn't reply, instead staring at Stiles with an indecipherable expression before lifting the shirt and pressing it firmly to the gash on Stiles' shoulder. Stiles bit back a yelp, because _shit_ , that fucking hurt. He widened his eyes at Johnson, trying to convey his reproach in a look.

Johnson seemed unimpressed, ignoring Stiles' expression in favour of grabbing Stiles' left hand and dragging it up to replace his own on the shirt. "Just put pressure on there before you bleed to death, okay?"

Pressure. Okay. He could do that. "Sure thing, Johnson. You know, you really need to work on your bedside manner."

Johnson settled one hand on Stiles' good shoulder, turning him in the direction of the blood-trail and giving him a nudge. It was a universal signal to get moving, and it was started to get kind of cold in the middle of the woods anyway, so Stiles complied.

"I mean, you've got the skills, clearly," Stiles rambled as he focussed on not tripping over his own feet. "But you're gonna need a bit of work if you want to be more Florence Nightingale and less Nurse Ratchet, you know?"

"Stilinski, do me a favour and shut up."

Stiles huffed, and considered complying. Johnson wasn't really a good conversationalist anyway. But there was one thing he needed to know first.

"Did he get away?"

A grunt. Stiles had a feeling that was supposed to mean yes.

"Did you get a good look at him?"

"No more than you." Johnson's voice was flat, and for once Stiles knew exactly what was going through his head.

All this, and they were still no closer to finding the killer.


	4. Mama, We're All Full Of Lies

**Chapter 3 – Mama, We're All Full of Lies**

Stiles eased his arm into a sling, wincing at the dull ache in his shoulder and sighing with relief when his arm stopped moving and the pain faded. Painkillers, he decided, were wonderful things. How else could he have been shot, then have someone slice him open even further and stitch him back together, and only have this mild ache?

One day, he would track down the person who invented opioids. Or visit his grave, he supposed. Whoever he was, he deserved a medal.

There was a knock at his door, and Stiles smiled as he spotted Luke standing in the entrance. "Awesome, you're here!"

Luke raised his eyebrows even as he smiled back. "I could get used to hearing that every time I enter a room."

Stiles snorted. "I wouldn't count on it. Not that I'm not glad to see you, but I'm just excited to be getting out of here."

Luke's expression fell serious and he took a step further into the room. "Stiles, you've only been here two nights. Are you sure you're ready to go?"

"Yep," Stiles replied cheerfully. "I got lucky. They fixed the nicked artery, and beyond that it's just a few partial tendon tears, nothing to worry about." He put on his best Monty Python voice as he continued. "Just a flesh wound!"

Luke didn't seem amused. "Stiles, come on. You needed a blood transfusion. Please tell me you're not actually discharging yourself."

His voice was strained, Stiles realised with surprise, and his stomach lurched with a sudden rush of guilt for making light of the situation. He hadn't realised it had affected Luke so badly, although now that he thought about it, he probably should have guessed. If their positions were reversed, he would have been freaking out, and when Luke visited yesterday Stiles had been too groggy from painkillers to reassure him that he was okay.

Well, this was his chance to fix that. Stiles' expression softened, and he took a step toward Luke, hoping to convey his earnestness in his voice. "Luke, I'm okay, I promise. They really have given me the all-clear. I know I lost a fair bit of blood, but they've replaced that and stopped the bleeding, so it shouldn't be a problem from now on. And there really isn't anything left for the doctors to do, it's just a matter of letting it all heal up."

Luke grimaced, but seemed to accept the explanation. He met Stiles' gaze, and Stiles was surprised to see a severity to his expression that was rarely there. "Just, please. Promise me you'll be more careful."

Stiles frowned. "I was being careful," he pointed out, not unkindly. "It's a risk of the job, Luke. Shit happens, sometimes."

Luke swallowed, breaking Stiles' gaze to glare at the ground. "Sometimes I hate your job."

Stiles sighed, eyeing him before finally making up his mind. Closing the distance between them, he reached around with his left arm to pull Luke into a tight hug. Luke stiffened momentarily, then Stiles felt him relax into the embrace, moulding his body to Stiles' own. He heard him take a deliberate shaky deep breath, exhaling slowly, and could feel Luke's heart gradually slow to a normal pace against his own.

They stood there for long enough for Stiles to lose track of time, just holding each other. Finally, Luke started to shift his weight, and Stiles let his arm drop. Luke raised his head, eyes searching Stiles' face, a strange expression on his own. Then he moved forward and pressed his lips to Stiles'.

Stiles froze, uncertain how to respond. He didn't kiss back, and after a long moment Luke pulled away.

Silence filled the room. Luke was only inches away but it might as well have been miles. Stiles realised that his breaths were coming in short, sharp bursts, and there was a familiar ache in his chest that the painkillers would never be able to touch.

Stiles was the first to break the silence. "You don't have to do this," he said carefully.

Luke's expression hardened, and he held Stiles' eyes as he spoke. "I know," he said, and his voice was firm. "I want to."

"It's okay, Luke," Stiles reassured him, ignoring the roiling in his gut that was screaming that it really wasn't okay, and why couldn't Stiles just accept something good happening for once? "I know you've been through a lot these last few days, but this isn't the way to fix things. We were friends first, we can be friends again. I promise."

"Just shut the hell up and listen to me." Luke's voice was threaded with steel and brooked no argument, so Stiles promptly shut the hell up, closing his jaw with a snap.

"Look, the other day, you kind of sprung it on me, and I reacted automatically. I didn't really think about what you were asking, I just responded.

"Now, I've had time to do some thinking. And the thing is, I really like spending time with you. I like having sex with you. When I'm at work and something interesting happens, my first thought is always that I can't wait to share the story with you. I miss you when you're not at home." Luke huffed a small laugh. "Stiles, we've been dating for years, I just didn't realise it."

Stiles bit his lip, watching Luke hesitantly. "You can do all that and still not have romantic feelings for me."

"Can I?" Luke asked rhetorically. "The truth is, I'm not sure what I feel for you. I definitely don't feel the same way for you as I do for my other friends. It's not the same as my previous relationships either, but then it wouldn't be. I've never been with someone as long as we've been together. Maybe we just skipped the honeymoon phase and moved right on to the long-term couple thing."

Luke shrugged before continuing. "Either way, I want to figure out what it is that I do feel for you. I want to give us a try, Stiles. I'm in if you are."

Stiles paused. "Once we do this, there's no going back," he warned. "We might ruin what we already have."

Luke nodded. "I know. But if I'm right, and I think I am, there's really no going back anyway."

He had a point.

Stiles nodded, then closed the distance between them. Raising his left hand, he rested it on the back of Luke's head and pulled him closer, arcing his neck down and drawing him into a deep kiss. Luke responded, kissing slowly and savouring the moment.

This. This felt right. Stiles closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of Luke kissing him, of his warm body pressed up against his own, fitting so well together and – oh. Okay. Yeah, that was a boner pressing into his leg.

Pulling back, Stiles quirked an eyebrow at Luke, tilting his head to indicate Luke's erection. Luke smirked in response. "What? Sue me; you're hot, I'm feeling all romantic, and I haven't had sex in days. Wanna go home and rectify that?"

Stiles laughed, finally pushing Luke away firmly. "Awesome though that sounds, I'll have to pass. I wanted to stop by the station on the way home, officially make my statement and touch base with the Sheriff about everything."

Luke's forehead creased in concern. "Stiles, you're literally just getting out of hospital," he argued, suddenly serious. "You can take one day off, and I swear that's not just my libido talking."

Stiles shook his head. "Please? I want to know what happened to Dalby, at least. I was in a bit of a daze the other day, and it's going to bug me until I find out."

Sighing, Luke gave in. "Alright then. Let's get your happy pills and get the hell out of here."

* * *

Luke opted to come into the station with him rather than stay in the car, and Stiles wondered how long the overprotective mother hen act would last. He hoped it would fade after a day or two, but he suspected that he might not be so lucky.

Of course, much as he might complain about it, there was a part of Stiles that revelled in knowing that Luke cared about him enough to fuss over him. It was that same part that was practically floating with elation, the knowledge that he was at the beginning of something that, now that he thought about it, really had been a long time coming. Damn, but the two of them were utterly useless when it came to this.

The reception area of the station was suspiciously quiet when they entered, and Stiles immediately felt on edge. There was a saying in the world of emergency services that things being quiet always heralded the start of utter chaos. Maybe it was just superstition, but over the last few years Stiles had seen it come true more than once, and he couldn't help but feel a wave of anxiety as he took in the deserted room.

Nodding to the deputy at the front desk, Stiles led the way to the bullpen, Luke trailing behind him. He opened the door and the sight before him allowed him to relax a little. Here, at least, things looked normal. Four or five deputies were seated at their desks working with varying degrees of concentration.

Johnson glanced up from his computer at the sound of the door closing, and when he spotted Stiles his face relaxed and he gave him a small smile before returning to his work. Stiles almost reeled backward, eyes widening with shock. Johnson smiling? That was basically a profession of love, coming from him. Dear god.

Mendez was the next person to spot him, and when he did his face lit up. "Stilinski," he crowed. "The first gunshot victim in this town for over five years returns to his camp! I'm honoured to bear witness."

Stiles rolled his eyes, but couldn't hold back a snort of laughter. "Whatever, Mendez. I'm fine, I'll be back at work in a couple of days."

"And yet you're here now," Poole observed. She smiled in his direction. "It's good to see you, but are you sure you should be here?"

"See?" Luke spoke up from where he stood at Stiles side, sounding satisfied. "It's not just me."

Stiles rolled his eyes, ignoring Luke in favour of responding to Poole. "I'm not officially here. I just came to make a statement and fulfil my curiosity as to what's happening with the case."

Surprisingly enough, it was Johnson who spoke up from his desk. "Go home, Stilinski. You can make your statement another day. Dalby's safe and sound, and the detectives are actually making progress on the case."

Surprised, Stiles couldn't help himself from asking. "They are? What progress?"

Poole and Mendez's expressions closed off, and Stiles stared at them in confusion. "What is it?"

They glanced at each other, then down at their desks. Neither of them answered him.

Stiles turned to Johnson, confused. The other deputy looked grim, and hesitated a moment before replying. "They have someone in custody for aiding and abetting. She gave us the tip that Dalby would be the next victim, and apparently she was correct. The theory is that she couldn't possibly have known that without having close contact with the killer."

Stiles' stomach lurched, and it had nothing to do with his painkillers. They had Lydia?

A hand grabbed onto his good arm, and Stiles realised that he must have staggered a little. Luke was steadying him, and when Stiles glanced at him he realised that Luke's expression was fearful.

"Okay, that's it," Luke said firmly. "I'm taking you home."

"No!" Stiles blurted out. The other deputies in the room were staring at him, he realised, and Luke's eyes were wide as they swept his face searchingly.

Stiles worked on keeping his voice controlled. "I'm here now, I'd really rather make my statement while it's all still fresh," he said.

Luke didn't look convinced, and when Stiles glanced around neither did Johnson, but the other deputies seemed appeased with his excuse so he ran with it. "Where are the detectives?"

"Interviewing the suspect," Johnson replied. He had narrowed his eyes at Stiles, and Stiles did his best to ignore his expression.

"Great!" Stiles said brightly. "We'll just wait in the back, then."

Grabbing Luke's wrist, Stiles dragged him through the bullpen, heading down the corridor toward the holding cells. There was an empty interview room nearby, so he pulled them into the observation room and pushed the door almost completely closed before letting Luke go.

"Stiles, what the hell are you doing?" Luke hissed.

Stiles paused, glancing out into the empty corridor before chancing a look at Luke's expression. Okay, yeah, that was a strange mix of terrified and pissed. Stiles licked his lips and returned his gaze back to the corridor before replying.

"The person they're holding? She's the old friend from high school I was talking about."

"Stiles…Jesus Christ," Luke muttered. "Look, I get why you're upset, but this feels like you're planning something a little bit illegal and it's making me nervous."

"It's not illegal," Stiles said in his most reassuring voice. A glance at Luke's face showed that it had absolutely no effect on calming him down. "I just need to talk to her, that's all."

"For fuck's sake, Stiles, this is insane! If what Johnson was saying is true, then she definitely knows something she shouldn't be able to know. You said it yourself, you haven't seen her since high school. Maybe she's changed. She could be a serial killer for all you know."

Stiles shook his head, eyes on the corridor. He tried to think of a way to explain it to Luke, but then he hesitated. Memories from his teenage years were filtering back, and he flinched when he recalled how disastrously wrong it had gone when he tried to tell his dad the truth. It wasn't worth it, not right now.

Taking a breath, Stiles tried to come up some sort of reasonable explanation, but cut himself off as a noise travelled down the corridor. He brought his finger to his lips, signalling Luke to stay silent, and crept closer to the door.

He could hear the unmistakeable sound of a door clicking open from just out of view, then footsteps and the clink of handcuffs as a pair of people made their way down the corridor. Finally, they came into view – a uniformed deputy looming over Lydia, one strong hand on her shoulder as he propelled her down the hall. Lydia looked exhausted, her makeup faded and her hair a tangled mess. There was the hint of bags under her eyes and her face was pale.

Stiles gripped the wall tightly, holding perfectly still as they passed. There were more footsteps down the corridor, but they were walking away from him. It must be the detectives heading back to the bullpen.

Counting his breaths, Stiles waited. After about five minutes of absolute silence, he finally allowed himself to move.

Turning, he spotted Luke's face, shockingly pale in the darkness. Stiles licked his lips, then moved in to give Luke a quick peck on the lips. "Stay here, okay? I'll be back soon."

"Stiles, please, don't." Luke's voice was thin, and he sounded terrified.

Stiles' heart ached. He wanted to say okay, to go with Luke and give him what he wanted. But it was Lydia. He couldn't just leave her there. "I'm sorry," he whispered instead. "Five minutes, I promise."

With that, he cracked the door open and slipped out the corridor before he could change his mind. Closing the door behind him, he walked softly toward the holding cells and crossed the threshold into the rooms.

There were three cells built into the room, strong steel bars lining the front. Two were empty, Lydia was seated in the one closest to the door, her eyes fixed on Stiles and her expression guarded. A deputy was seated close to the door, and Stiles recognised a relatively junior uniform by the name Peterson. He was a nice kid, with a friendly grin and a propensity for sharing cigarettes with anyone who asked, so he fit in well with the rest of the staff. He was still very green, however. Good. Stiles could use that.

"Hey, Stilinski," Peterson said, an easy smile appearing on his face. "Good to see you back on your feet."

"Thanks," Stiles responded, voice light. "I just got out today."

"So what brings you back here instead of at home bingeing on Netflix?"

"I thought I'd make my statement sooner rather than later," Stiles responded. Lies were always swallowed better if they were close to the truth. He'd learned that a long time ago.

"Oh, well the detectives were headed back to the bullpen if you were looking for them," Peterson said helpfully.

"Oh, great," Stiles answered. He turned as though to leave, before pausing. "Actually, while I'm here, did you need a break?"

Peterson looked at him in surprise. "No, I'm good. And you're not working, are you?"

Stiles shook his head. "No, I'm going home after this. I just thought I'd offer. This shift sucks, I know."

Peterson groaned. "Yeah, tell me about it. But you're injured, anyway."

Stiles made a point of looking at Lydia before turning back to Peterson and raising his eyebrows. "I seriously doubt I need two functioning arms to take her down," he pointed out. "Besides – just how many nicotine patches are you using to get you through this shift?"

Peterson looked sheepish. "Five."

Stiles' eyes widened in surprise, and this time there was no acting required. "For god's sake, just go have a smoke," he said, incredulous.

There was a pause while Peterson considered, and Stiles could almost see the moment he caved. "Just two minutes, I swear," he promised.

Stiles nodded. "Do what you have to do."

He had a moment to feel guilty when he saw the grateful expression on Peterson's face; then the man disappeared and it was just him and Lydia.

Now that he was here, Stiles didn't know what to say. He couldn't break her out of the station, he had wormed his way in here on a purely instinctive need to make sure that she was okay. But now, all he could think of was the last thing she had said to him, and for once Stiles' mind was a complete blank.

Again, it was Lydia who spoke up first. "What happened to your arm?" Stiles realised with surprise that her voice was threaded with worry.

"It's fine," Stiles assured her.

Lydia stared him down. "That's not what I asked."

"Uh, gunshot wound," he answered awkwardly. Lydia's eyes widened in horror, and Stiles hurried to reassure her. "It's seriously fine," he said. "Doctors have cleared me and everything."

"How did it happen?" Lydia asked.

Well, this could get difficult. Better to get it over with, he supposed. "I was on protection detail for Dalby when the killer showed up," Stiles explained bluntly.

Lydia pressed her lips together, and shrinking back into her corner. "I'm sorry," she said, voice almost a whisper.

That was the exact reaction that Stiles had hoped she wouldn't have. "It's not your fault," he said, trying to sound stern and failing miserably.

Lydia's lip trembled. "You wouldn't have been there if it weren't for me," she pointed out. "You wouldn't have been shot."

Stiles shook his head, walking closer to her cell and crouching down to meet her eyes. "And Dalby would be dead. He's alive because of you," he said softly. "And I'm fine. You're the one I'm worried about. I can't break you out of here, not without help." His voice cracked as he finished, his anxiety finally breaking though.

Lydia shook her head urgently, reaching for Stiles' hand between the bars and giving it a quick squeeze. "Don't even think about it," she said quickly. "I've got it covered, don't worry. I thought this might happen when they asked me to identify myself, so I've come up with a backup plan."

"What backup plan?" Stiles didn't think he could be more anxious than he already was, but apparently he could. "Are the others around?"

"No," Lydia answered. "It got to be too much, they couldn't just drop everything in their lives and come running every time I predicted someone's death. It's just me."

"That's really not making me feel better."

Lydia opened her mouth to continue, then snapped it closed at the sound of faint footsteps in the hallway.

"I told you, I have a plan," she said cryptically. "It's not my best, but it should work. Trust me, I'll be out before tomorrow."

Stiles shook his head. "Lydia, they're accusing you of aiding and abetting." Maybe she didn't realise.

"Stiles, I promise you I'll be fine. Now get away from the cell before they realise why you're really here."

The footsteps were getting louder, and Stiles swallowed back a curse as he realised Lydia was right. "My address in 16 Lowood Drive. Come find me when you're out." Scrambling away from the cell, he headed for the guard's chair and schooled his face into what he hoped was a bored expression.

The door opened, and Peterson entered. His gaze swept the room, and he broke into a smile when his eyes landed on Stiles. "You're a legend, man, thank you," he said gratefully. "All good here?"

Stiles smiled in response. "Yeah, no worries. I should take off, though."

He took one final glance at Lydia who gave him an almost-imperceptible nod, and then Stiles turned and walked away.


	5. When Worlds Collide

**A/N:**

I don't normally do author's notes, but there's a couple of things I need to get off my chest.

Firstly, to those who have left me lovely reviews and to those who are lurking but enjoying: thanks for the feedback guys, it means a lot to me :) I hope you enjoy the fic as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Unfortunately, I've had a surprising number of negative comments and PM's from people complaining about the slash content. To those, I have four simple words to say:

 **Don't like; Don't read.**

Seriously. It's in the summary, people, and if you somehow missed that it's in the _freaking first chapter_. It's not like I've put it as a twist at the end of a novel - I'm not trying to trick you into reading slash. _No-one is forcing you to be here_. The back button's right there, guys.

And I'm going to be perfectly honest. I wrote this story for me, not you. I was bored and I felt like writing. I've never written any measure of romance before and wanted to give it a try, and I happened to be in a slashy mood. I was also in a bit of a Stydia mood, tbh, but I'm not confident enough at romance to try writing such a gorgeous pairing just yet, so slash it is.

I'm not going to criticise you for not liking slash, by the way. Each to their own. Just please don't criticise me for choosing to write it.

So anyway. This is a fun site, and I'd like it to stay that way. So that's all I'm going to say about that.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 4 – When Worlds Collide**

 _Please state your name and date of birth, for the record._

 _Lydia Martin, March nineteenth, 1995._

 _Thankyou. Four days ago, you warned us that Ross Dalby would be the next target of the serial killer, and now he's been attacked. So, tell us, how did you know?_

 _It's a long story._

 _We've got nowhere to be._

 _Isn't it enough that I warned you? Surely that's proof that I'm on your side, not the killer's._

 _Not necessarily. And even if you are what you say you are, which I doubt, then you still know something that could help us catch him. You're concealing evidence._

 _You know, you've got a real talent for throwing accusations around. Ever thought of being a lawyer? Or a politician?_

 _Detective Brady isn't just making accusations, Ms Martin. We are ready to charge you and throw you in prison. Or, you can tell us what you know, and maybe we don't have to._

 _Don't I get a lawyer?_

 _Do you want a lawyer?_

 _I guess…not really. Actually, I'd feel a lot better if no one knew I was here._

 _Why's that?_

 _Because…okay. Um, alright. I'm actually going to do this. …Sorry, I've never told anyone this before, I'm a little nervous._

 _That's okay. Take your time, Ms Martin._

 _Okay. Okay. Well, here's the thing. I don't know who the killer is, or what he wants with me, but I think he's been playing with me for a while now. As in, old-school horror movie harassment. It all started a few months ago. I started getting phone calls from a blocked number, and when I'd answer there would just be heavy breathing on the line. Then I started getting notes in the mail – you know, those ones that are made out of magazine cut-outs? They had threats on them, saying that whoever was sending them was going to kill me. Some of them went into detail about how he would do it. Some of them contained recent photos of me._

 _Why didn't you go to the police?_

 _[Laughs] You think I didn't try? Like I said, old-school horror movie. Some of the notes threatened to kill my friends if I went to the cops. Eventually, it got to the point where I was scared enough to try anyway. I was on my way to the station when I got a call from a blocked number, and a voice telling me to stop. He must have been watching me. And then when I got home, my dog had disappeared._

 _Your dog?_

 _Yeah. I don't know what he did to her, but I received her paws in the post a week later._

… _That's just… Okay. Any idea who would do this?_

 _Not a clue. Honestly. I can't imagine anyone doing this, let alone anyone that I know. It's horrible._

 _It sounds horrible. It doesn't explain how you know about the victims, though._

 _Oh. Well, I don't know why, but at some point this person started sending me photos of other people in the mail, strangers. I didn't recognise any of them at first. It wasn't until I saw the news report of the girl in the next town over that I realised that they were all murder victims. And that he'd sent me the photos of the victims before they died._

 _Why would he do that?_

 _How would I know? Why did he kill my dog? Why is he threatening me? God, I don't know! This is all some sick game to him, as far as I can tell. All I know is that when I realised what was happening I had to try and stop him. So the next time I got a photo I tried to track down the person that it was referring to, and I found Katie Warren. And then I called you, and now she's alive because of it. That's it. That's all I know, okay?_

 _There must be something else to go on._

 _There's not. Look, I don't have the first clue who this guy is. I burned most of the letters, and I've changed my phone number since it started, but if you check my motel room, you'll find at least some of the letters that I'm talking about. If you check my phone records, you'll find the more recent calls. I swear to god I'm telling the truth._

 _That remains to be seen._

* * *

Luke was pissed.

Stiles could almost feel the anger coming off him in waves, and he didn't have to be a genius to figure out why. Luke hadn't said a word since Stiles had returned from the holding cells, and had turned the radio volume up deafeningly loud during the whole ride home. Then he had helped Stiles into their house before immediately taking off again in aid of grocery shopping, but he had been gone for a good four hours before he finally made his way home.

This really wasn't how Stiles was hoping their first day as a real couple would go.

"Luke, I'm sorry," Stiles tried for the tenth time.

Luke finally broke his wall of silence to glare at him. "You're sorry you snuck off and lied to a whole station of cops so that you could see your old high school serial killer friend while she was locked up, or you're sorry that you dragged me into it?"

Stiles hesitated. "Both?" he offered.

Luke stared at him in disbelief, and Stiles sighed. "Okay, okay, the second one, then. Look, I know Lydia is innocent, and I just had to make sure she was okay. But I never meant to drag you into it, I swear. If I could go back, I would have made you wait in the car."

"Well, at least you're being honest." Luke frowned at him. "But I've got to say, that's the worst apology I've ever heard."

Flinching, Stiles had to concede the point. "I really am sorry, though," he said, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could muster.

Something seemed to get across, because Luke bit back whatever response he had ready on his tongue and hesitated, watching Stiles closely. Finally, he sighed heavily. "I really don't want to fight with you right now," Luke said in a weary voice. "So I'm just going to blame it on the painkillers and try to forget that you were an inconsiderate asshole."

"That would be really great," Stiles said earnestly.

Luke snorted a little, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You make it really hard to stay mad at you, you know that?"

"I can think of a few people who would disagree with you there."

Luke hesitated, face falling serious again. "Seriously, though, Stiles, what's the big deal with this girl? What's so special about her that you were willing to pull that stunt back at the station just to talk to her? And why are you so convinced that she's innocent?"

God. Where could he even start? Stiles' mind whirled, trying to come up with something that sounded remotely plausible, but there was nothing. Giving up, he decided to start with the basics and go from there. "It's Lydia," he said finally, as though that explained everything. A quick look at Luke's expression made it clear that it didn't, so he continued. "We grew up together. She was my childhood crush, and then she became one of the best friends I've ever had. She's an amazing person, I missed her like you wouldn't believe after I left Beacon Hills."

"Okay," Luke said slowly, "but Stiles, it's been a long time. God knows what's happened to her in the last eight years. You can't just say that she's innocent because of what she was like as a teenager."

"I know." Stiles paused, testing out the truth on his tongue. He couldn't quite bring himself to say the words. Instead, he said, "If I just asked you to take my word on this, would you accept that?"

Luke frowned at him, and Stiles realised with a stab of guilt that he no longer looked angry. He just looked tired, face pale and drawn. "I suppose," he finally conceded. Stiles had never heard his voice so small. "It hurts, though, that you think you can't trust me with this."

There was that familiar stabbing pain again. Stiles swallowed, and finally found the words he had been searching for all afternoon. "I trust you," he said, meeting Luke's familiar blue eyes with his own and hoping that he could convey his honesty that way. "It's just that the last person I had to explain this to was my dad, you know? And it didn't go down well."

Luke's expression softened, and his eyes were filled with understanding. "Yeah, I know. I get it."

There was a pause as Luke studied Stiles, and finally he offered a weak smile. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry too. I was more freaked than angry, really. I've never seen you like that."

Stiles didn't know how to respond to that. Sneaking around police stations wasn't exactly a new activity for him, although now that Luke mentioned it, he really wouldn't have considered doing that even couple of days ago. Maybe, he wondered, seeing Lydia had triggered a part of him that he hadn't realised still existed. A small edge of fear caused his heart to tick up a notch at the thought. It had been so easy to slip back into old habits, as though Lydia's arrival was wiping away the last eight years of his life, and that was something he was definitely not okay with. It had taken a lot of time and effort to build this life, and the idea of losing it filled him with a brand of anxiety that he hadn't felt in a long time.

Dragging himself away from his thoughts, he realised that Luke was speaking. "Anyway, we still have a few hours left to enjoy our day, and I for one could use a few good memories from today to wipe away the afternoon. Dinner?"

Stiles stared at him, before finally breaking out into a relieved smile. No. He wasn't going to lose this, because now he knew what was really important, and he would fight to defend it if he had to. Beacon Hills, banshees, werewolves – none of it mattered. This was reality - Luke, their home, and the life that they had inadvertently made together. His limbs flooded with content, and he nodded in reply. "Sounds good. Are there any more grocery bags in the car?"

It was amazing how quickly Luke's expression could change from distraught to sympathetic to horrified. "Shit!" he exclaimed. "I got distracted. You start on the ones in here, I'll go grab them now."

Stiles chuckled, grabbing Luke on the shoulder as he turned to leave. He leaned forward and gave him a quick peck on the lips, and was rewarded with a small but sincere smile before they parted ways.

Making his way into the kitchen, Stiles spied the armful of bags that Luke had dropped on the counter before they had started arguing and set about his task. Trying to undo the knots in the bags with only one arm was an experience he could do without, but after a good minute of struggling Stiles finally managed to get the first bag open and gradually packed the contents away. The second bag was even more difficult than the first, and Stiles found himself muttering a litany of swear words as he pried away at the knots. Finally, though, it fell open, and Stiles stared at the contents in surprise.

The front door opened with a bang and loud clattering sounds announced Luke's return. "Luke," Stiles called out, amusement threading through his voice as he rummaged through the bag, "we need to have a chat about your priorities. You forget to buy bread but you manage to get four boxes of lube? You know I'm not a teenager anymore, right? Just how much are you expecting –"

A loud cough interrupted him and Stiles glanced up. Luke was standing in the living room, arms laden with bags and expression torn between horror and laughter. He was the one who had coughed. Next to him stood Lydia.

"Uh," Stiles fumbled. Lydia cocked her head, raising an eyebrow at him.

It was Luke who finally broke the silence, sounding far too amused for his own good. "Should I have mentioned you have a visitor?"

Stiles' jaw worked as he struggled to find the words. Finally, he gave up altogether. Abandoning the bags, he crossed the room in four long strides and wrapped his good arm tightly around Lydia's shoulders, pulling her into his chest and resting his cheek against the top of her head.

It was a few seconds before Lydia responded, but then Stiles felt her wrap her arms around his torso and push herself up on her toes, resting her chin on his shoulder. He took in a shaky breath, absorbing the smell of her, and could feel her relax into his arms.

"Hi," Stiles finally said.

"Hi," Lydia responded. Sniffling, she gave him one last squeeze and then released him from the hug, and Stiles noticed with surprise that her green eyes were moist. Well, so were his, now that he thought about it. He couldn't keep a smile from his face though, and he drank in the sight of her.

Lydia had clearly come straight from the station. She was wearing the same clothes as she had previously, and Stiles didn't think he'd ever seen her in so little makeup. "So, they let you go?" Stiles asked dumbly.

Lydia nodded. "Told you they would. I'm innocent, all I had to do was give them proof."

Luke was watching the exchange closely, and his stance shifted at Lydia's words. "You're in the clear?" His voice was guarded, but he seemed honestly interested.

Lydia turned to him, suddenly cautious. "Yeah. I'd rather not go into it, though. It's kind of personal."

For a moment, Stiles worried that Luke wouldn't accept that. Then he realised just how wrong he was. It had been five years, but he was still constantly surprised by Luke's capacity to think the best of people, even when the evidence was pointing the other way. So he shouldn't have been surprised when Luke's face relaxed into a warm smile, and he nodded with understanding. "Fair enough," Luke said. "We were about to have dinner, if you haven't eaten?"

Lydia hesitated, glancing toward Stiles. He nodded encouragingly, and that was all she needed.

"I'd love dinner."

* * *

Dinner had been fascinating.

Stiles had taken a backseat to the conversation, watching as his old and his new life collided. He had been prepared for destruction, for anger, for hurt feelings.

He hadn't been prepared for this.

"So what's your opinion on string theory then?"

"It's a vague concept dressed up prettily enough for some people to actually take it seriously. There's a lot of regurgitation of old papers, and a lot of theoretical modelling going on in the field, but very little actual evidence."

"Oh thank god. Stiles, would you be upset if I left you for your childhood crush?"

Stiles choked in surprise, and spent the next few seconds spluttering on his mouthful of water. When he could finally breathe again, he narrowed his eyes at Luke.

Lydia laughed, a genuine, carefree laugh that Stiles hadn't heard in a long time. "So, Stiles told you about that, did he?"

Luke ignored Stiles' glare in favour of egging her on. "Not in nearly enough detail. But I have seen him obsess over other people in the past, and it was ridiculous. What was he like with you?"

Lydia's eyes were sparkling, and she relaxed back into her seat as she responded. "Well, he did buy me a TV for my birthday, so there's that."

Luke's eyes widened, and he stared at Stiles incredulously. "Seriously?"

"No," Stiles said. He wasn't pouting, dammit. "I never actually gave it to her, anyway."

"I still wish I'd seen your dad's expression when you came home with that," Lydia smirked. Stiles' smile slipped, and Luke looked at him in concern, but Lydia didn't seem to notice the change in mood. "How is he, anyway?"

Stiles hesitated, glancing at Luke. Thankfully, Luke seemed to know exactly what was going through his head. "You know," Luke said, "it was really great to meet you, Lydia, but I have a whole pile of high school history assignments to wade through before my students start making death threats. And I'm sure you guys have a lot to catch up on, so if it's alright I'll leave you to it."

"Good to meet you, too," Lydia said warmly, and Luke nodded to her before making his way to his bedroom.

Stiles scrambled up from the table and followed, catching Luke by the elbow just before he left the room. "Hey," he said softly. "I know this isn't how you wanted to spend tonight. But thank you, for doing this."

Luke quirked his lips into a small smile. "No, it's fine, Stiles. I haven't seen you this energetic in a while. It was fun, honestly."

Stiles turned slightly so that his back was to Lydia before he continued. "Tomorrow night, let's do something, okay? Just you and me."

"Are you asking me out on a date?" Luke asked, clearly amused.

Stiles raised his eyebrows. "Are you saying yes?"

A snort, and Luke gave him a soft kiss before leaving. "Of course I am, you idiot. Now go catch up with your friend."

With that, Luke left the room, and a few seconds later Stiles could hear music drifting through the closed door. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his fluttering heart – because despite the fact that he'd kissed Luke a thousand times before, that kiss was different. That was a honeymoon-phase just-started-dating kiss. Stiles bit down on a smile. Oh yeah, he could get used to that.

Turning back to the living room, Stiles saw that Lydia had migrated from the table to the couch while he was busy acting like a besotted schoolgirl. She was watching him with curiosity burning in her eyes, and when he met her gaze she patted the seat next to her.

Stiles made his way over to her and sat down on the empty cushion as she spoke. "Your boyfriend's cute, but he's not subtle. What did you want to talk about without him in the room?"

And, well, wasn't that a loaded question. Fifty different answers flitted through Stiles' mind and he discarded them each one by one. The pleasure of seeing Lydia was still burning in his heart, but overlying it was a lead-limbed exhaustion from the emotional rollercoaster of the day, and he wasn't sure how much he could take. Eyeing Lydia, he weighed his options, and finally settled on something relatively safe.

"I just thought that at some point we should talk about the murders."

Lydia's face fell for a brief second, but then she carefully schooled it into a neutral expression. Stiles caught it, though, and immediately felt a brand-new twinge of guilt.

"The murders," Lydia echoed flatly.

Stiles shifted uncomfortably. Somehow, he knew that this was not what Lydia had in mind, that she would rather be talking about Beacon Hills and Dread Doctors and why Stiles left and what happened afterwards. There was an unsettled lurch of his stomach at the thought of disappointing her, but Stiles ignored it. He'd made progress today, but even he had his limits.

Gathering his thoughts, he pushed on and asked, "Is there anything I should know about them that you haven't been able to tell the detectives?"

Lydia exhaled slowly, eyes drifting away from Stiles as she thought. "It's not…I've been getting feelings about how people are going to die, which organs are going to go missing, that sort of thing. I don't think I'm hearing anything that the police don't already know."

Her words were chosen carefully, and Stiles frowned. "There's more, though, right?" he prompted gently.

Lydia pursed her lips before responding. "It's nothing definite, but I think that there is something supernatural about the deaths. It's a pattern that I've noticed over the years. Everything is just so much _stronger_ when there's supernatural forces in play, and these feelings were strong enough for me to book a plane out here from New York. Something's going on, but I just can't put my finger on it."

Her voice was laced with frustration, and Stiles automatically grabbed her hand and gave it a small squeeze before replying. "Lydia, calm down. Just knowing that there's something more to look for is a big step in the right direction. We'll figure it out."

The words slipped out before Stiles could stop them, and he inhaled sharply when he realised what he had said. For a brief moment, he wondered if Lydia would notice, but then he spied a half-smile on her face before she gently squeezed his hand in return, and he couldn't help but smile back as a faded warmth spread through him.

"So, what do you think?" Lydia asked, releasing Stiles' hand and shifting on the couch to face him. Her eyes were shining with renewed energy, an eagerness to tear this mystery apart radiating from her smile. "There was that omega werewolf back in junior year who dug up a grave and ate a man's liver. Could it be something like that?"

Stiles squinted, cocking his head as he considered her words. "Possible, but I doubt it," he decided finally. "What sort of werewolf just eats someone's eyes? These murders seem more deliberate to me – ritualistic, almost."

"Deliberate, maybe. But ritualistic? Not really," Lydia countered. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think there were any symbols or strange herbs at the crime scenes. And location doesn't seem to be important, since the last few victims were killed at home. It doesn't really fit with human sacrifices to me."

Stiles conceded the point. "Fair enough." He turned her words over in his mind, and finally what she wasn't saying clicked into place. "Hang on," he said slowly, "we're focussing on the deaths. But what if it's not the death itself that's important? There were body parts taken from each of the victims."

Lydia's eyes were wide as she took in his words. "What if it's the body parts?" she wondered aloud.

"Yeah. Maybe whoever's doing this is stealing the body parts for – god, I don't know – some kind of supernatural reason."

"…Or some kind of spell." Lydia's voice was distant, eyes unfocussed as she spoke.

Stiles opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again and stared at Lydia in surprise. "Wait, you're serious?" She nodded, and Stiles blinked in confusion. "As in, honest-to-god ancient spellbooks and rabbit's feet and Latin chants, that kind of spell?"

The spark had drained from Lydia's eyes, and she broke her gaze from Stiles as she replied. "I forgot you weren't there," she said, voice suddenly devoid of humour. "There was a witch toward the end of senior year who seemed like she was straight out of a fairy tale. And before we finally defeated her, she had permanently blinded Danny, killed Deaton, and brainwashed half the town. It was awful."

Stiles swallowed. There was a lump in his throat, and that acid guilt was again roiling in his stomach. Conflicting thoughts were racing through his mind, the ' _I should have been there'_ s warring with the ' _This is exactly why I left'_ s. His chest was tight, a sharp pain stabbing him with every breath, and he considered a hundred different replies before giving in and remaining silent.

Lydia shifted, taking a shaky breath in and out and visibly steadying herself before continuing. "Anyway, spells are real. I might ask Scott to bring up some of Deaton's old books so we can go through them, see if there's anything that could explain what's going on here."

Stiles could almost feel the exact moment that his heart stopped. "Uh, I don't know if that's really necessary…" He trailed off at Lydia's glare.

"Stiles!" Her voice was that special brand of high-pitch that she saved for when she was really annoyed at someone. It was one of the few things Stiles hadn't missed about her.

Lydia broke off, seemingly collecting her thoughts before starting over. "Stiles, you know he's not still mad at you, right?" she asked slowly.

Licking lips that were suddenly dry, Stiles slowly shook his head. "Isn't he?" Eight years on, and Scott's words still echoed in his mind. _There's always a choice._ Murder couldn't be that easy to forgive.

Lydia's eyes were wide and she leaned forward, capturing Stiles' gaze with her own as she spoke in a firm voice. "Listen to me. Whatever happened between the two of you, Scott never wanted you to leave. He was devastated when he realised you were gone." Stiles shook his head, uncomprehending, so Lydia pressed her lips together before continuing. "He even lost control, for a little while."

"Lost control?"

Lydia nodded emphatically. "Yeah. He said later that it was like during his first full moons again. He was constantly on edge, lashing out at the slightest provocation. We actually had to lock him up, the first full moon after you left."

Stiles raised his eyebrows in surprise. Jesus. Those first few weeks of barely-in-control werewolf-Scott were bad enough the first time, he couldn't imagine throwing alpha abilities into the mix.

And okay, Stiles was officially a horrible person. The idea of Scott losing control should definitely not have lit a small spark of hope in his chest, but it absolutely had. He was definitely going to hell.

"And I'm sorry, Stiles, but there's more at stake here than avoiding an eight-year-old argument between the two of you. People are dying, and we need those books. No matter how hard it might be for you, I have to call Scott."

His hope faded, and Stiles hesitated before meeting her eyes, anticipation and apprehension warring for dominance within him. Eight years, and he had never quite been able to move on from Scott McCall. Eight years, and his last words haunted his dreams more frequently than he would ever be able to admit out loud.

But Lydia was right. People were dying, and that had to take precedence over Stiles' issues. Didn't it?


	6. In Between The Lines

**Chapter 5 – In Between The Lines There's A Lot Of Obscurity**

"Stilinski!"

Stiles jerked his head away from the computer screen to see the Sheriff gesturing at him from the bullpen door. "A word, please?"

Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Stiles offered the lady standing before the front desk an apologetic smile as he stood. "Sorry, ma'am, take a seat and Deputy Mason will see you as soon as possible." She glared at him in response, huffing as she collected her bag, and Stiles turned away to hide his grimace. Ugh. Sometimes, the people that he had sworn to protect really pissed him off.

The Sheriff had disappeared back to his office, so Stiles weaved his way across the bullpen, coming to a stop in front of his desk. The Sheriff glanced at him and waved a hand for him to have a seat and Stiles complied, shifting his weight on the chair awkwardly as he watched the Sheriff in confusion.

Finally, the Sheriff glanced up from his paperwork, shrewd eyes studying Stiles from across the desk. "Are you sure you're supposed to be here, son?" he asked, not unkindly.

Stiles winced before replying. "Yes, sir," he said, voice not betraying his inner turmoil. _Please, don't send me home_ , he thought desperately. The pain of his shoulder was far outweighed by restlessness, a need to be doing something while people were dying in the town he considered home. "I'm just working the front desk, anyway," Stiles bartered. "It's not like I need my shoulder for that."

"And how is your shoulder?"

"Fine," Stiles answered firmly, testing it a little in his sling. "Just a bit sore, nothing more. I'm even starting to get a bit more movement back in it already."

The Sheriff grunted in reply, eyes narrowed. Stiles had a feeling that he didn't believe him, but he set his expression to what he hoped was something close to innocent and held his breath that the Sheriff would let his lie go by.

It seemed that luck was on his side, as after a long moment the Sheriff let out a sigh, relaxing back into his chair as he eyed Stiles with consideration. "Alright then, I'm not your father. If you say you're fit to work, then so be it."

"Thanks," Stiles replied, unable to keep all of the gratefulness from his voice.

There was a pause, and the mood in the room seemed to change in seconds. The Sheriff's mouth twisted, and he asked, "Tell me, what are your long-term plans? Career-wise."

Stiles' eyebrows climbed, and he tilted his head in confusion at the unexpected question. "Uh, I'm not sure," he answered slowly. "For a long time I was planning on becoming a detective, but I'm fairly settled in town here and that would mean a big move, so… I'm still deciding."

He still wasn't sure when his priorities had changed, but Stiles thought it might have been sometime in the last year. There was a sarcastic voice in the back of his mind that helpfully pointed out that it probably coincided with the end of his last relationship, when Stiles and Luke's friends-with-benefits arrangement had somehow developed into a comfortable domestic _something_ that had at the time defined labels. God. Suddenly, Stiles could almost feel his joints creak. Was he really at the point in his life where he was faced with a choice between career and relationship? When did he grow up?

The Sheriff was staring at him with an impatient expression, and Stiles shook himself out of this thoughts. "Uh, sorry, I missed that."

Okay, so that was what the boss looked like when he was unimpressed. Filing that expression away in the I-never-want-see-that-again pile, Stiles straightened in his seat and tried to look attentive.

"I said that maybe we could offer you something that could help with that decision. You've got a good mind for patterns, Stilinski, better than most. And it so happens that right now you're not very useful to us on the road. Bottom line, Detective Coulson is prepared to offer you a chance to work with them and assist with the murder investigation, if that's something you'd be interested in."

The Sheriff was watching him carefully, but Stiles couldn't stop his eyes from widening to what he imagined was a comical size. Adrenaline flooded him, and suddenly keeping still seemed to take an incredible amount of effort.

"Yes!" Stiles responded, and then cringed at how excited he sounded. Giving himself a shake, he tried again, this time focussing on sounding like an adult rather than a little kid at an amusement park. "Uh, yes, sir, I would be very interested."

"Good," the Sheriff replied bluntly. "You start today. The detectives are in the back office, they asked you to join them immediately."

Scrambling up from the chair, Stiles gave up on maturity and smiled broadly. "Seriously, boss, thank you so much!"

Maybe he imagined it, but there was a small smile plastered on the Sheriff's face as Stiles turned to leave. "You can thank me later. Now get the hell out of here, son."

"Yessir."

The hallway to the back office seemed shorter than ever and Stiles' legs carried him with a renewed energy. The door to the office was open and Coulson and Brady were huddled over a desk inside. Raising a hand to knock, Stiles took a moment to appreciate the investigation board standing against the far wall, nostalgia flaring in his chest. The circumstances might have been awful, but he couldn't deny that there was a certain thrill to puzzling over a mystery for days and weeks on end, culminating in a satisfaction like no other when the pieces finally fell into place. Granted, it was usually drowned out by the terror of running from yet another monster intent on killing him, but a part of Stiles still couldn't help but appreciate it, leaving him itching to throw himself into another mystery.

Coulson looked up from the table, and smiled when he spotted Stiles in the doorway. "Coming to join us?" he asked, voice friendly.

Stiles nodded eagerly, hoping that he didn't look too much like an over-excited puppy. Coulson didn't seemed to mind, smile broadening at Stiles' response, but Brady looked heartily unimpressed. Stiles ignored her. She might be all tough on the outside, but Stiles had seen her drunk at a Christmas party last year, and it turned out that she had a very loose tongue.

And even if things had changed and she no longer considered him to be 'one of the few people in this place she really enjoyed spending time with', and 'totally fuckable as well, for the record', well, at least he had leverage.

It was almost as though she could read his thoughts, because Brady's expression softened and she actually gave him an honest-to-god smile. "Going to stand there all day, Stilinski? We could use a hand."

Stiles accepted the invitation, taking a few steps into the room to join them at the table as Coulson took over. "Have you had a chance to read the case files?"

Stiles nodded. "The boss gave me the files when I was assigned to protection detail, and I had some time to go through it all yesterday."

"So what do you think?"

Thrown, Stiles stared at Brady with wide eyes. Okay, so maybe this was one of those tests where they tossed him in the deep end so he can learn how to swim. Fortunately, he thought grimly, he'd had plenty of practice.

"Well, to start with, there's several clear patterns amongst the victims. First, all were fit and healthy, between the ages of seventeen and twenty-six. What's interesting is that this pattern extends to the earlier victims, many of whom were homeless. That means that the killer deliberately sought out healthy people, even when they were hard to come by. For some reason, that's important to him.

"Secondly, and most obviously, each victim had organs removed from the bodies. The ME reports indicate that the organs were likely removed prior to death. Putting those two patterns together, the most obvious conclusion would be that we're dealing with someone trying to increase their supply of black market organs. The problem with that theory, though, is that each body had a different organ removed, and had only one removed each time. Surely an organ thief would generally stick with just the one organ, or at least try to harvest more than one from each victim to maximise their profits."

Brady nodded in agreement, but it was Coulson who spoke up next. "Good," he said. "That's pretty much what we were thinking as well."

Satisfied, Stiles relaxed a little. He had passed their first test, at least. "The problem, though," he continued, "is that if organ thieves are ruled out, where do we go from here? Gang initiation rites would be a possibility, except that there are victims across several towns, well outside any sort of gang territory. Of course, there's always a chance that the murderer is just completely psychotic, but if so he's doing a very good job of cleaning up after himself."

"Ah, but never underestimate the power of psychopaths," Brady countered. "You're right, most medically psychotic people by definition display poor judgement skills and wouldn't even think to try and cover up their crimes. But psychopaths – or, medically speaking, people with antisocial personality disorder – are a very different breed. They will always believe that they're in the right, and they can commit horrific crimes without blinking because they don't have the capacity to feel guilt. And unlike their psychotic counterparts, they're still able to think their plans through and cover their trails. If anything, that's what we're dealing with here."

"Well, that's…terrifying," Stiles admitted.

Fortunately, Coulson seemed to agree with him. "Absolutely. Which is why we need to find him."

Brady picked up the story. "We've already interviewed everyone we could find who knew the last two victims. Other than what you've already mentioned, we couldn't find any link between them. They were different genders, lived in different parts of town, had different social circles and hangouts and hobbies. We sat down with Ross Dalby yesterday, and again we can't find any link between him and the other victims, although obviously we're still working on that one."

"The best lead we have right now, really, is Lydia Martin."

Coulson finished talking and stared at Stiles, expression suddenly serious.

Stiles faltered, excitement giving way to frustration. Was that was this was about? His dreams collapsed in on themselves, and he frowned. "I told you," he said flatly, "I haven't seen Lydia in eight years."

"Except when she spent the evening at your house last night?"

Blinking, Stiles' jaw dropped and he stared at Brady in shock. "How do you know about that?"

Undeterred, Brady raised an eyebrow at him. "Purely good intentions, I promise. Lydia told us a rather harrowing story yesterday of how she's been harassed and threatened by the killer. We offered her police protection, she turned us down with some bullshit story about not giving him the satisfaction of ruining her life."

"Sam," Coulson berated gently. Brady snapped her mouth shut, and Coulson took over the explanation. "Look, Stiles," he said, and it was the use of his first name that made Stiles push past his anger to pay attention, "we followed Lydia home because we were worried about her. She offered us enough proof to support her innocence that we had to let her go, but she refused a police escort. We just wanted to make sure she was safe."

"Uh huh." Stiles really didn't mean to sound rude, but seriously. Did Coulson really think he was that thick?

"I'm telling the truth," Coulson insisted, sounding uncharacteristically annoyed.

Brady took pity on him. "He is actually telling the truth," she sighed. "I don't believe her, but he does. It's those Bambi eyes, I swear. But even if he's wrong, we both agree that she's our best lead. If she's lying, then she knows more than she's letting on. If she's telling the truth, then that means that the killer has a personal interest in harassing her, specifically. Find out who she's pissed off in the past, and we have our killer."

Stiles glared at her. "That's not the only thing I'm mad about. This is why you want me on the case, isn't it? To get Lydia to talk since you can't legally drag her in here anymore?"

There was an awkward silence that answered Stiles' question better than an explanation ever could. Growling, he squared his shoulders and spun on his heel, only to feel pain explode in his side as his hip cracked into a corner of the nearby table.

"Shit!" Stiles couldn't stop the curse from leaving as he reflexively grabbed his hip, squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment. Great. First he was lured here under false pretences, and now he couldn't even storm out of a room properly. Gingerly, he opened his eyes and cringed when he saw that piles of paper that had previously been on the table were now scattered across the floor.

Stiles knelt to the floor and slowly began gathering the papers into a heap with his one good hand. There were footsteps behind him, and then a large figure crouched down to help. Coulson. Stiles avoided his gaze, focussing instead on his task.

"That's not the only reason, you know," Coulson said, finally. Stiles ignored him, just as he was ignoring the increasingly loud thumping of his heart and the anger searing through his nerves. On the one hand, he was fully aware that he was acting like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but on the other hand he was too furious to care. All Lydia had ever done was try to help people, and this was the thanks she got? None of this was fair.

Coulson either didn't notice his rage or was ignoring it, because he continued. "We really could use another mind on this, Stiles. You mentioned last year that you wanted to be a detective, and I know you've got a lot more deductive reasoning going on up there than you let people believe. The fact that you're the one person here who might have a hope of getting Ms Martin to clue us in to what she knows is just a bonus."

"Right." Forgive Stiles if he was having trouble believing that.

"Let me bottom line this for you, Stilinski," Brady said with considerably less sensitivity. "People are dying. Your friend – someone that you said you haven't seen in nearly a decade - might be able to stop that. If you aren't willing to work with us on this, then you're really not the person I thought you were."

Stiles opened his mouth to snap back a response, when the print on a piece of paper near his knees caught his eye. Distracted, he picked it up, scanning the words with a frown. "What?" he wondered aloud in a confused tone.

There was a movement by his side and Coulson peered over his shoulder to see the paper. "Yeah, we didn't know what to make of that, either," he admitted. "We were writing it off as one of those freak occurrences. How else would she have ended up with wolf hairs on her clothes?"

 _That's the wrong question_. _You should be asking why the hell a werewolf is stealing people's organs._ Stiles licked his lips, mind racing. His interest must have shown on his face, because Brady asked, "Does that mean something to you, Stilinski?"

"No," Stiles responded quickly. He glanced up to find Brady and Coulson both watching him curiously, and did his best to school his expression into something more neutral. "It's just weird, that's all."

"This whole case is weird," Brady pointed out. Stiles couldn't argue with that one, so he nodded and she smiled grimly. "And that's why you're going to stay and help. You're not going to be able to walk away from a mystery like this, are you?"

Stiles pressed his lips together, conflicted. If he stayed, he would be walking a fine line. He couldn't interrogate Lydia because there was nothing that she could tell him that he didn't already know, but he also couldn't explain that to the detectives, and they would be expecting results. On the other hand, if he left… His limbs trembled, suddenly exhausted, and his shoulder throbbed with a dull ache as he realised that Brady was right. He was never going to be able to walk away from the case, and he needed to know everything the detectives knew if he was going to be able to solve it.

"Anything else I should know?"

* * *

"So our first date is at the pub that we go to on a weekly basis?"

"Shut up, you love it." Stiles grinned at Luke from across the table, who responded by raising his schooner of beer in a salute.

"Alright, you win, you know me better than I do." Luke downed a mouthful of beer before setting his glass back on the table and relaxing back into his chair. "This is actually kind of awesome. I know we've done this a thousand times before, but it feels different now."

"Yeah," Stiles agreed. There was a warmth burning in his chest when he looked at Luke that hadn't been there a week ago, and he couldn't stop smiling. "I could get used to this."

"You better." Luke sighed contentedly before continuing. "So I hear you've been promoted?"

Stiles frowned at Luke in confusion. "How do you know about that?"

Smirking, Luke took his time responding. "I told you before, your friends at the station love me. I got texts from no less than four people after you apparently disappeared to do detective-y stuff for the afternoon." Stiles shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. Luke seemed to sense his distress, and added, "Don't worry, they all seemed excited for you."

His apprehension eased a little, and Stiles made a non-committal noise in response. Luke caught his hand from over the table, watching him in concern. "I thought you'd be more excited. What's wrong?"

Stiles heaved a sigh before explaining the events of the morning. By the time he was finished, Luke was fuming, blue eyes snapping with fire. "So, what, they're just using you? That's bullshit!"

Surprisingly, Luke's loyal anger seemed to make Stiles' ease off. For the first time since the detectives had mentioned Lydia, he felt the tight ball of self-doubt and misery untangle from his chest, and he managed a genuine smile. "It's not that bad," he reassured. Luke didn't seem convinced, raising an eyebrow in response. "Really," Stiles insisted. "I mean, they could have just asked me to talk to Lydia without letting me help on the case. The really are letting me work on it, so that's something."

"I'm still going to give Coulson an earful when I see him," Luke muttered angrily.

Stiles scooted his chair closer to Luke, leaning forward to give him a soft kiss. "Thankyou," he said sincerely. He meant it, too. Just having someone in his corner made a world of difference.

Luke licked his lips, taking in Stiles' features with wide eyes. Then his gaze drifted, and his head tilted to the side as he focussed on something in the distance. "Speak of the devil."

"Dude, there's only like three places to eat in this town. Of course Coulson will be…" Stiles trailed off as he twisted in his seat, inhaling sharply with surprise. It wasn't Coulson. Instead, Lydia was standing at the counter, eyeing the menu as she absently played with a lock of her hair. She had clearly had a chance to freshen up, finally, and she had changed into a light dress carefully designed to show off her tiny waist and slim legs.

But it wasn't Lydia that shocked Stiles into silence. At her shoulder stood a familiar figure, tanned skin and dark hair hiding a slightly uneven jaw, and a thin T-shirt definitely _not_ hiding his built torso.

As Stiles watched, the man suddenly froze, head cocked as though searching for something, and started turning in their direction. Stiles spun back around, acutely aware that his heart was racing, only to find Luke staring at him like he'd lost his mind. "Stiles, you've gone completely white. Do you know that guy?"

Stiles nodded, and found that he had to clear his throat in order to be able to speak. Even so, his voice sounded scratchy to his ears. "That's...uh. That's Scott."

Luke's eyes widened, and he craned his neck to getter a better look. " _That's_ Scott McCall? The ex-best friend that you had a massive argument with just before you left Beacon Hills, and is the main reason that you never talk about your childhood, Scott McCall?"

God, what Stiles would give to be able to see Scott's expression right now. The way that Scott had suddenly become so still, muscles bunched – Stiles would recognise that body language anywhere. He had spotted Stiles – or, more likely, he had recognised his scent. And if that was the case, there was no way that Scott wasn't eavesdropping on their conversation. The temptation to turn and see Scott's response was incredible, but Stiles held still. He didn't want to risk catching Scott's eye, after all. Instead, he nodded weakly.

"Huh. He's hot."

Stiles glared in response. "That's not helpful."

"Sorry, sorry," Luke apologised, chastised. After a moment, though, his gaze flitted back to Scott, and Stiles groaned. Luke chewed his lip for a moment, before asking, "So, when you say you guys were friends, do you mean it in the same way that you've always said that we were friends?"

It took Stiles a while to figure out that sentence, but finally he thought he understood what Luke meant. "As in, were we friends with benefits?" At Luke's confirmatory noise, Stiles shook his head. "No way, Scott's as straight as an arrow."

"Are you sure about that? Because the look on his face right now says otherwise." Stiles narrowed his eyes at Luke. Oh no. Luke had that same inquisitive expression that Stiles recognised from himself, and it never lead to good places. Sure enough, it wasn't long before Luke was shifting closer. "Here, he's looking this way. Let me try something."

With that, Luke reached one hand to Stiles' head, pulling him down and into a deep kiss. Stiles' eyes fluttered closed and he groaned with pleasure, sinking into the sensation. Luke's tongue was probing at his lips, so he parted them as he raised his good hand to palm Luke's cheek, and an instant later the whole pub had melted away into the background as he lost himself in the moment.

Eventually, Luke pulled away, and Stiles heaved a breath, licking his tingling lips and sinking back into his seat. His mind was whirling at the sudden loss of sensation, and blood was rushing to areas that were definitely not socially acceptable. He struggled to settle his breathing as he stared at Luke with wide eyes. "What was that?"

Luke wasn't looking at Stiles, instead peering over his shoulder as he smirked with satisfaction. "Yep, he's definitely interested. I should have put money on that."

Curiosity got the best of him, and Stiles twisted in his seat. He caught Scott's eye briefly as the other man quickly looked away, trying to act as though he hadn't been watching them. It was too late, though, and Stiles managed to catch a glimpse of his expression before he turned. It didn't take a lifetime of friendship to be able to recognise blatant jealousy.

Surprised, Stiles turned back to his boyfriend, only to find him looking entirely too happy about the whole situation. "Okay, two things," he began. "Firstly, that doesn't mean anything other than that you have a dirty mind. He could just be jealous that I'm not a miserable wreck without him, or he could be really hungry and envious that we already have our meals."

Luke stared at him with disbelief, and, well, yeah. Stiles wasn't really serious about the second option, but the first was a perfectly valid suggestion. God knows his and Scott's relationship could hardly have ended on a worse note that it did, and it wouldn't surprise him if Scott was still angry. "Secondly, if you really do think he's jealous of us and has a massive gay crush on me, shouldn't you be a little more upset?"

"Nah," Luke brushed off his concern. "I know you love me."

Stiles spluttered, the words catching him off-guard. Then, he caught sight of Luke's mischievous grin and buried his head in his hands with a groan.

Ugh. Stiles was officially done with today. It had been too much of an emotional rollercoaster, he couldn't handle it anymore.

He felt Luke's hand pat his thigh gently, before giving it a soft squeeze that even with his eyes closed Stiles knew was accompanied by a suggestive expression.

And, okay, he could get behind that. Beer, sex, then a good sleep, and hopefully tomorrow would be a better day.


	7. All My Life

**A/N:** Apologies in advance if Stiles seems a bit callous in this. I've been rewatching season 1, specifically the episode where he teaches Scott to control his abilities by physically assaulting him over and over again, and I think a little bit of that may have bled through.

I love Stiles to death, but he can be a bit of a dick sometimes. Sometimes, it seems more about keeping up appearances than anything else, making people think he doesn't care so that no one will realise just how easy it is to hurt him. And sometimes he's just kind of a dick for no real reason.

(He's still my poor, wounded baby though. Someone give that kid a hug.)

* * *

 **Chapter 6 – All My Life I've Been Living In the Fast Lane**

Stiles checked the number on the motel room door against the scrap of paper in his hand and took a deep breath. The motel receptionist had folded incredibly easily; all it took was one look at his badge and she was happily writing down Lydia's room for him without a second thought. Everything about this morning had been easy, actually, but now that he was here he couldn't stop a feeling of dread from crawling over him at the thought of going through with this.

The only thing stopping him from turning tail and running was the image of Katie Warren's face. She was a good kid, always there with a smile and radiating optimism that was surprisingly more endearing than annoying. When he was having a bad day at work, she had always taken a moment to have a quick chat with him and slipped an extra brownie into his lunch order. The thought that she could very easily have died an agonising death haunted Stiles' mind, and he couldn't risk it happening to anyone else.

Gathering his courage, Stiles raised his left hand and knocked on the door. Surprisingly, his knock actually sounded determined, not betraying his inner turmoil. There was a pause as the rustling sounds in the room fell silent, and then Stiles could hear heavy footfalls approaching.

The door swung open, and suddenly there he was. Narrow brown eyes framed by strong cheekbones, a familiar tattoo circling his arm as his hand clutched the doorframe in surprise. Scott.

The silence stretched awkwardly between them as Scott stared at him in shock, and Stiles tried to settle his traitor heartbeat. His mouth was dusty dry, his gut a sudden roiling wreck of guilt, warmth, fear and anger all fighting for dominance. Still, Stiles steeled himself, desperately clinging to the hope that his old tried-and-true defence mechanism would serve him well just one last time. Pushing down his clamouring emotions, he licked his lips before finally speaking. "Uh…I was looking for Lydia?"

The response was instantaneous. Scott's expression crumpled, and his hand clenched down on the door so hard that Stiles swore he could hear wood splintering. For a moment, Stiles watched with apprehension as Scott's eyes darkened and his lips parted to reply, but then something changed and the other man hesitated. Finally, Scott stepped backwards to allow Stiles entrance. "She's in the bathroom." Scott's voice was strangled, and Stiles nodded, doing his best to ignore it.

He kept his gaze on the floor as he entered the room, and thankfully the sound of running water announced Lydia's entrance moments later. Stiles turned to meet her as she broke the tension of the room. "Stiles!" Her eyes lit up and Stiles greeted her with a genuine smile. "I thought you'd be working."

Stiles shook his head. "Rostered day off. Apparently, three days of sick leave means a two day working week. The only proviso is that I keep my phone on me in case something major happens relating to the case."

Lydia tilted her head in confusion. "Really? Can they do that? Surely they can't expect everyone to be on call at all times."

"No," Stiles answered. He hesitated, before shrugging and giving her the full explanation. "They've assigned me to work with the detectives on the case. Mostly because they think that you might open up to me about this mysterious person who's been harassing you."

Stiles tried to keep his voice light, but some of his distress must have come through because Lydia frowned, forehead creased with concern. "Are you going to lie to them?"

"I sort of have to, don't I?" Stiles said, trying to sound as though it didn't bother him. From Lydia's expression, he didn't think he succeeded. Sighing, he explained, "I'll just tell them that I couldn't get anything out of you. It's the only way I'll be able to keep working with them, and that's the only way I can find out details relating to the case that might be able to help us."

There was movement from behind him, and Stiles chanced a glance to see that Scott was opening his mouth, readying to interject. Heart ticking up, Stiles quickly continued, cutting him off. "For starters, it turns out that there were wolf hairs found on one of the bodies."

"Wolf hairs?" It was Scott who spoke, voice radiating surprise, but Stiles kept his gaze on Lydia as he nodded. She shook her head at him, raising a disapproving eyebrow to let Stiles know that she knew exactly what he was doing, and she didn't like it one bit.

Thankfully, she didn't pursue the topic. "That's strange. Like you said the other day, the murders don't really seem to fit with werewolves."

Glad that he wasn't alone in his confusion, Stiles made a noise of agreement. "And the guy who shot me was definitely not a werewolf – seriously, I was literally right in front of him and he still managed to miss anything vital. He had terrible aim for a human, let alone someone with superpowers."

The words were deliberately casual, and Stiles couldn't help a swell of satisfaction when he heard a choking noise from behind him. He probably shouldn't be enjoying Scott's discomfort so much, but fuck it. What use was a defence mechanism if he couldn't have fun with it every now and again?

Something must have shown on his face, because Lydia stopped looking disapproving in favour of outright glaring at him. Stiles figured it was probably a good idea to change the subject. "Anyway, you mentioned that you were going to chase up some spellbooks?"

For a moment, Stiles didn't think Lydia was going to let him get away with it, but then she sighed and rolled her eyes in that way that only Lydia could. "Over there," she said, indicating a pile of heavy books weighing down the coffee table. She led the way over to them and picked up the top one. "I've started working my way through this one, but you can take your pick of the others."

"Awesome." Stiles grabbed the second book in the pile and plopped himself down on the couch. Purely business. He could do this.

He opened the heavy leather cover, and after a long moment felt the couch sink down beside him as Lydia started in on her own book. Scott's gaze burned into him from a few feet away, and Stiles felt the hairs on his neck rise at the sensation. Hoping he would get the hint, Stiles brought his book a few inches closer to his face and studiously ignored him. There was a long pause, but finally Stiles heard a grunt and heavy footsteps approaching, and watched out of the corner of his eye as Scott picked up the next book from the pile and sat in a nearby armchair. Good.

Stiles returned his attention to his book and before long he lost himself in the words, gradually flipping his way through the pages and stopping every now and again to jot something down. The book was oddly fascinating. There was a difference between knowing that the supernatural world existed and reading a step-by-step recipe for creating fire out of nothing, and there was a part of him that was brimming with excitement at the discovery. He was so caught up in reading that he completely lost track of time, not looking up until the couch shifted beneath him and Lydia cleared her throat.

"Not to distract you guys, but it's almost lunch time. I could use a break."

Surprised, Stiles stared up at the clock, blinking furiously as his eyes adjusted to the sudden change in focus. She was right, he realised, and his stomach suddenly grumbled in complaint. "Food sounds great."

Lydia leaned forward to rest her book back on the table, then reached for the notepad sitting beside it. As she scanned the writing, she nodded to herself, lips twisted in thought. "We've made good progress, anyway," she said, sounding impressed. "There's a couple of possibilities already. One spell involves using organs to create something entirely new – sort of like the Dread Doctors, I guess, but using magic instead of science."

Stiles shifted uncomfortably, and could feel Scott do the same nearby. "God, I hope it's not that. That was bad enough the first time around," Scott said vehemently.

Lydia hurried to reassure them. "Well, that's only one option. I did find another spell that's probably more likely. The spell itself is for immortality; what's interesting, though, is a story that someone scribbled in the margin. Apparently, the spell doesn't keep you young, it just keeps you alive. The story was about a man who used this spell successfully, but had to keep stealing organs from other people in order to keep his body functional."

Stiles' arms prickled as his hair stood on end at the thought, and his stomach turned uncomfortably. "That sounds eerily similar to what's happening here," he agreed. "What happened to that man?"

"According to the note, he was found by hunters. They couldn't kill him, so they buried him alive."

"Jesus Christ." If his stomach was turning before, it was nothing compared to the somersaults it was doing now, and Stiles squirmed. Suddenly, he really wasn't hungry anymore.

"It might not be that, though," Lydia suggested. Her voice betrayed her doubt, but hey, at least she was trying. "There's a third one here; Stiles, did you write this one down?"

Stiles took a couple of deep breaths to settle his stomach before replying. "Uh, yeah. It's a little crazy though. Whoever wrote this book apparently found a cure for lycanthrope." Scott sat a little straighter in his chair, and Lydia cocked her head, interested. "It involves taking human organs, putting them through a cleansing ritual one by one, and then feeding them to the werewolf. The spell apparently works best if the organs are fresh, and the healthier they are the better their chance of making it through the cleansing. Eventually, when the wolf has eaten the equivalent of an entire person, it will turn back to being human."

There was silence in the room, and Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly. "Like I said, it's a little crazy."

"I think that's a bit of an understatement," Scott muttered.

Lydia's lip was curled with disgust, but her brow was furrowed in thought. "It would explain the wolf hairs, though," she pointed out.

Stiles heaved a sigh, nodding weakly. "Yeah. I was really hoping that you guys would find something more convincing."

A heavy silence punctuated the fact that they hadn't, and finally Lydia sighed. "I hate to say it, but it's probably the best explanation we have so far. At the very least, Scott needs to keep a nose out for any unfriendly neighbourhood werewolves until we can find a stronger lead. Right now, though, I need coffee if I'm going to keep functioning. Guys?"

Stiles nodded agreement in time with Scott, and Lydia rose from the couch to make her way into the kitchenette, leaving the two of them alone.

The silence changed from heavy to awkward, and Stiles carefully avoided Scott's piercing gaze. He had been successful so far in his goal to pretend that Scott didn't exist, but Scott was never one to let sleeping dogs lie and Stiles had a feeling his luck was about to run out.

Sure enough, the silence lasted all of ten seconds before Scott started speaking, voice uncharacteristically strained. "Stiles, will you please just look at me?"

Clenching his jaw, Stiles glared at the carpet and didn't respond.

"Stiles, come on. You can't just ignore me forever."

Stiles twisted his lips, considering. Scott had a point. Technically, he could keep ignoring Scott, but it probably wouldn't make solving this case any easier. Settling on a compromise, he raised his head and turned to meet Scott's eyes with a defensive glare.

Scott's mouth tightened when he saw Stiles' expression, but he met his gaze steadily. "I know things weren't exactly good between us when you left…"

Stiles didn't mean to let out a derisive snort, really. It just slipped out before he could stop it. "Speaking of understatements," he said sarcastically.

To his credit, Scott let the comment slide by. "I wanted to apologise." His eyes were sincere as they bored into Stiles' own. "I missed you," he added softly.

The thing was, Stiles knew that Scott was being sincere. He probably really did want to apologise, and probably had some idea in his head that they could go back to being friends once this was all behind them. And that was the problem, right there.

"Let me guess," Stiles said, shifting so that he was squared off against Scott and abandoning his plan for keeping up the silent treatment altogether. There was a dull ache in his chest, and he stamped down on it furiously. "When I left Beacon Hills, you probably thought it was because of everything that had happened between us, right?"

Scott stared at him with a strange expression, an odd mix of hope that Stiles was finally talking to him, and confusion at what he was saying. "It wasn't?"

Stiles shook his head, the heat fading from his voice as he spoke. "No. Don't get me wrong, it made it a hell of a lot easier to leave, and I don't know if I would have made it out without that." Scott's eyes clouded with confusion, and Stiles chose his words carefully. "I left because I was sick of seeing my dad in hospital. I was sick of being chased by monsters every goddamn day because my best friend just happened to be a werewolf, and I was terrified that one day I was going to stumble across my father's dead body."

Scott flinched backward at the words. "You wanted him to be away from me," he said in a dull voice.

Stiles moved his head, a cross between a nod and a shake. "Not you specifically. All of that supernatural crap, which seems to stick to you like glue." He hesitated, before throwing caution to the wind. Scott always had responded better to honesty, after all, and now that he had started he was filled with a need to get it all out in the open.

"Seeing you here – Scott, _it_ _hurts like hell_. I can't even look at you without thinking about what happened to us. After I left, it was a long time before I even figured out how to be me without you, and I still have days when I miss you so much it physically aches." There was a lump in his throat and his voice was harsh, but he saw Scott open his mouth and powered on before he could interrupt. "But as much as I want to hear your apology and clear things up between us, it's not worth it. It just means it'll be that much harder to say goodbye."

His chest was heaving, and he tried to settle his breathing before giving it up as a lost cause. Scott reeled backward, eyes brimming with hurt, and Stiles could barely stand to look at him as he continued. "Once this case is done," he said shakily, "I need both you and Lydia to leave, okay? I just want to live my normal life with my normal job and my normal boyfriend, where my biggest worries are not having enough coffee to get through the day and figuring out how to tell Luke that I love him. I don't want to have to say goodbye to him every morning wondering if it's going to be the last time that I see him."

There was a soft noise from his left, and Stiles turned to see Lydia standing in the doorway, watching him with a hurt expression. He shrunk back into his seat, and couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes. When he spoke next, his voice was soft. "I'm sorry, Lydia," he said, voice strained. "I really did miss you, and seeing you again…I can't even describe how glad I am to see you. But I can't risk you staying here, you have to understand that."

Lydia shook her head wordlessly, and Stiles reconsidered. She was right, that wasn't the truth, not really. "I can't risk Luke," he corrected.

There were tears shining in Lydia's eyes, but she nodded slowly, somehow understanding the meaning behind the words. "Okay," she said, finally, voice cracking on the word. "I don't like it, but I get it. You deserve to know that he's safe."

Harsh breaths from his right distracted Stiles, and when he looked toward the sound he was greeted with the sight of Scott's eyes flaring red.

"Woah!" Stiles yelped, scrambling off the couch and backing up a few paces. "Scott, you still in there?"

Scott's eyes landed on him, and his lips curled back in a snarl, revealing his fangs. Stiles' stomach turned and icy fear flooded his limbs, his hand automatically drifting to the empty space where his Glock would normally sit. He cut off a curse when as his fingers grasped air, remembering that it was safely stowed away at home. Scott shifted slightly so that he was crouched on the edge of his seat, muscles taut and ready to pounce, and Stiles' heart thudded with adrenaline. He was vaguely aware that Lydia was frozen to the floor a few feet away, but neither Stiles nor Scott spared a glance in her direction, eyes fixed on each other, waiting for the inevitable twitch of movement that would announce an attack. Eventually, though, after what seemed like an eternity, Scott's staccato breaths began to even out, and Stiles watched as his eyes faded to their usual dark brown.

Finally, Scott nodded. "Sorry," he said in a small voice, shrinking into his seat. "I don't know what happened. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Stiles said automatically. His heart was still pounding mercilessly against his chest, but his muscles had instinctively relaxed at the sound of Scott's voice. Which was…well. That was something that Stiles didn't really want to think too much about.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, until Scott finally dropped his gaze. "There's one thing I need to know," Scott said, in that same small voice. "Did it work? Is your dad okay?

There was a silence, and Stiles considered lying, but Scott would be able to tell and, anyway, he deserved to know the truth. The Sheriff had been a father to him almost as much as to Stiles.

Stiles shifted his weight, staring at the floor when he finally answered. "He died in a car accident two years ago."

A sharp intake of breath revealed that Lydia was as surprised as Scott, and thank god for small mercies. Stiles couldn't imagine how she would have felt, predicting the death of yet another person that she cared about. He didn't look up to see Scott's expression, he didn't think he could take it.

The cheerful tone of the Archer theme song shattered the heavy silence, and Stiles turned away as he reached for his phone, grateful for a distraction. Coulson's name flashed on the screen, and he swallowed past a lump in his throat as he hit the answer button. "Hey, this is Stiles."

"Good, you're around," Coulson's voice was crisp, focussed, and Stiles felt a faint flutter of curiosity rise in his chest. "Sorry to interrupt your day off, but we're going to need to you to come in."

"What is it?"

The unmistakeable sound of sirens was filtering through the tinny phone speaker. "We've got another dead body."


	8. So Many Sleepless Nights

**Chapter 7 – So Many Sleepless Nights Where You Were Waiting Up For Me**

The kid was only eighteen. Fuck.

Stiles couldn't get the image out of his mind as Coulson drove them back to the station. The boy had been lying on his bedroom floor, glassy green eyes staring blankly at the ceiling and his jaw stiff and slightly open as rigor set in. His skin was that sickly shade of pale that Stiles had only ever seen amongst the dead, and his chest…

There was a gaping hole where his chest used to be. Jagged edges of macerated ribs reached for the sky, guarding over the disturbingly visible heart and oesophagus that lay nestled within well-defined areas of the chest cavity. The mess of muscle and bone that had once been the front of his torso was still largely in one piece, a red-raw piece of flesh flung carelessly into a shadowed corner of the room. And covering all of this was the blood. Crimson streaks arced across the walls, the furniture, the ceiling, and Stiles was so distracted by the mess that at first he didn't realise what was missing.

And then it hit him. The boy's lungs were nowhere to be seen.

It was the boy's mother who had found him. She and her husband had left him alone the evening before to enjoy a rare night out together. When they returned, they had assumed he was playing on his computer in his bedroom, and the next morning they thought he was sleeping in, as he was wont to do. It wasn't until it was nearing midday that his mother became worried and forced open his bedroom door to make sure he was okay.

Stiles didn't think he would ever forget her wailing. She had a horrific, high-pitched cry that barely sounded human, interspersed with agonised gasps and sobs. Even now, sitting in Coulson's car, the sound echoed endlessly through his mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to drown it out with the whine of the engine, taking a shaky breath to settle his stomach.

The engine faltered, and Stiles opened his eyes to see that they had arrived at the station. There was a moment of silence as he composed himself, face turned deliberately away from Coulson to hide his expression.

"Are you okay?" Coulson's voice was soft, and surprisingly unsteady.

Twisting in his seat, Stiles met Coulson's gaze and took a moment to study him. The usually composed detective was pale beneath his dark skin, faint lines creasing the corners of his eyes. His lips were pressed together so tightly they were almost white and his jaw was clenched. It was as close to upset as Stiles had ever seen him, and he couldn't stop his eyes from widening as he took in Coulson's features.

"Yeah," Stiles finally responded. "I mean, I will be. Some days are harder than others, you know?" He wasn't sure if he was getting his point across but Coulson didn't seem to mind, instead nodding slowly as he replied.

"When I first started this job, people told me that it never gets any easier," he replied, voice distant. "They were wrong. It does get easier. But every now and again you come across a grieving family that just gets to you, and it's like being back with that very first case."

A dam burst at the words, and Stiles heaved a deep breath as a burning pain exploded in his chest. He nodded, blinking furiously to hold back tears and focussed on steadying his racing heart. It was almost as though he had been given permission to grieve, and his body had taken that blessing and run with it.

A glance at Coulson confirmed that Stiles wasn't alone in his distress, and for a moment he took comfort in the company. Then he drew himself inward, counting breaths over and over again in a way he had trained himself long ago, until finally the pain receded and his pounding heartbeat faded.

Stiles wasn't sure how long they sat there, but eventually he felt Coulson shift in the seat beside him. The detective had been lost in his own thoughts whilst Stiles was counting, and whatever technique he favoured had clearly done its job. None of the fractured, strained man from minutes earlier was visible; instead, his face had regained its colour and his eyes shone with the determined intellect that Stiles knew so well. His expression asked a question that didn't need to be spoken, and Stiles pressed his lips together in agreement. The decision made, both men opened their doors and climbed out of the car, heading toward the station.

The bullpen was filled with the usual noises; the hum of computers, the shuffling of paper, the occasional chatter of deputies going about their business. Stiles stood at the threshold and felt himself immediately relax; for just this moment, it was as though the events of the morning were removed from reality and it was just another day at the office. Then, a slight movement from his periphery caught his attention and Stiles turned automatically. He froze when he saw who it was.

Scott was sitting on the bench seat that lined the front of the room in clear view of the deputies. He was wearing the same jeans and thin T-shirt from that morning, and he perched on the edge of the seat, muscles tense as he stared at Johnson with a frown. Stiles' gaze flicked down to Scott's bare wrists and he released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding when he noted he wasn't wearing handcuffs.

"Scott?" Stiles asked, perplexed. Scott jumped, startled, and his eyes flew up to meet Stiles'. "What are you doing here?"

Stiles could see Scott's eyes flick to Coulson and back and was well aware that the detective was studying the interaction with interest, but he ignored him for the moment. Instead, he watched as Scott widened his eyes at Stiles meaningfully, tilting his head in the direction of the bullpen, and Stiles squinted in confusion before staring back helplessly.

The moment stretched uncomfortably long, and finally Scott seemed to realise that Stiles wasn't catching on. "I came with Lydia," he answered. His voice was strained, his mouth pulled tight in frustration, but god help Stiles if he had any idea what Scott was really trying to say. "They wanted to ask her a few questions about the latest murder."

The words cut through his confusion, and Stiles' limbs instantly burned with white-hot anger. Eyes shining with fury, he clenched his fists as he spun on his heel and took off toward the interrogation rooms. He could hear heavy footsteps following close behind, and the minute he made it into the back corridor a strong hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

"Stiles, wait," Coulson's eternally calm voice had an edge to it, and Stiles set his jaw as he turned to meet his careful gaze.

"Is this where Brady was while we were at the crime scene?" Stiles' voice was dangerously flat, and he would have been proud of himself for not yelling if he wasn't too angry to care.

Coulson had the decency to look at least a little guilty. "Stiles, you said it before – we can't legally drag Lydia in here against her will. Brady asked her to come in for an interview, not an interrogation, to see if she knows anything about this latest murder. That's all."

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles tried to stare Coulson down, but the detective didn't budge. Finally, though, the words sunk in and Stiles deflated, anger fading away with a sigh. "Yeah, okay," he said grudgingly. "I suppose we'd be stupid not to do that."

Coulson raised his eyebrows in surprise as he nodded. "I'm glad you can see that."

The conversation cut off abruptly as the door to the nearest interrogation room cracked open and Brady and Lydia emerged into the corridor. Stiles swept his eyes over Lydia's face, anxiety receding as he took in her composed appearance, her hair neatly pulled into place and her expression carefully neutral. She met his gaze and gave him a quick smile, and Stiles shook with relief.

The women didn't stop, heading straight out through the bullpen and presumably out the front door of the station. Stiles sighed as he broke his gaze from them in favour of meeting Coulson's eyes. Whatever had happened in that interview room, it would have to wait. They had work to do.

* * *

"Come on, Luke, pick up," Stiles muttered to himself. Luke's phone didn't even ring before suddenly cutting out, just as it had the last seven times he tried calling. It was a familiar sound. It had happened countless times before, when Luke had spent too much time playing Angry Birds and wore out his battery, and then forgot to charge it again.

In fact, knowing Luke, he had probably dumped his phone on the table near their front door when he arrived home from work and then completely forgot about it. Stiles had never met anyone as terrible as Luke when it came to actually answering his phone; he never seemed to keep the damn thing on his person at all. More than once, he had exasperatedly asked Luke why he even bothered paying for it, to which Luke had shrugged and made an off-hand comment about the magic of dick pics.

Now that he thought about it, Luke could be as annoying as fuck sometimes.

Gritting his teeth, Stiles looked at Luke's picture on his phone in frustration. Goddamn Luke _knew_ that he was supposed to be picking Stiles up after he finished for the night, how could he just let his phone die? The town wasn't large enough to warrant public transport at this time of night, but it _was_ large enough that walking home would be an absolute pain in the ass. There was a whisper around town of a taxi service starting up sometime in the next six months, but that wasn't exactly helpful for Stiles right now.

Stiles spotted the message icon on his phone, and he hesitated. Lydia had texted him a few hours ago and she was certainly an option. Out of everyone in his contacts, she would probably complain the least about being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to come and pick him up. But then again, Scott would probably come too, and that was definitely _not_ something that Stiles was ready to deal with right now. It had been too trying a day already, the last thing he wanted was another uncomfortable conversation with Scott about old arguments and hurt feelings.

And anyway, calling Lydia would probably mean that Stiles would not be getting to sleep any time soon. Her message had been a frantic mess of exclamation marks and panic, with the gist being that Scott had managed to detect a werewolf somewhere in the station. On any other day, Stiles would be jumping at the chance to find out more, but right now his bones were aching with fatigue and his legs were trembling as they struggled to hold his weight. He was so tired he couldn't think his way out of a paper bag, let alone try to figure out which of his co-workers was moonlighting as a deranged serial killer. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

Sighing, Stiles turned back toward the station. Maybe he could convince one of the night shift workers to swing past his house when they left on patrol. Wearily, he lifted his leaden feet and started making his way back to the front door. His eyes were on the ground, so he looked up in surprise at the unmistakeable sound of a door opening, and cocked his head at the sight of Johnson leaving the building.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles winced at his own question, his voice sounding rude to his own ears. Apparently he had reached that level of fatigue where it became difficult to put any sort of polite inflection into his voice.

Fortunately, Johnson didn't seemed bothered. "I was on the evening shift," he explained. "I had a few loose ends to tie up, so I stayed back an hour." His dark eyes raked over Stiles and then the empty carpark before he raised his eyebrows in question. "Where's Luke?"

"Hell if I know," Stiles grumbled. "His phone's dead, I can't get through."

"Want a lift?"

Stiles hesitated, Lydia's message flitting to the forefront of his mind. This really had all the makings of a bad slasher movie. The warning being slightly too vague to be useful, the empty carpark late at night, the helpful acquaintance offering a ride before locking the doors and tearing his head off in the middle of an empty street….

Johnson was waiting for an answer, and Stiles cast his mind for a good excuse. He came up empty. "No, thanks, I'll just keep trying," he said instead, lightly, trying to sound as though he wasn't choosing to remain stranded in a carpark for no apparent reason.

Johnson's face clouded, and he frowned. "Stilinski, don't be an idiot. I live two blocks away from you. Just get in the goddamned car."

Stiles' mouth opened and closed for a moment as he struggled to find a comeback, but apparently his mind was just not working with him tonight. "I….yeah, okay," he finally sighed, giving in. Who was he kidding, anyway? This was Johnson. He had known him for years, and sure, maybe they weren't friends exactly, but he was still a comforting presence. Besides, he had saved Stiles' life less than a week ago. If that wasn't a marker of not-serial-killer material, then Stiles didn't know what was.

Johnson's car was a sensible Honda, and Stiles groaned gratefully as he settled into the passenger seat. His arm twinged as the seatbelt pressed into his injured shoulder, but it was no match for the relief he was feeling in his legs for no longer having to carry him. Dear god, but he couldn't wait to get into bed. Johnson kept the radio off as he drove and apparently had as little interest in making small talk as Stiles did, so Stiles listened to the comforting purr of the engine during the short trip home. His body relaxed automatically in time with the sound, and by the time they turned into his street his eyes were drifting shut and Stiles idly wondered if he could just stay here instead.

The car slowed as it pulled up in front of his house before the engine finally cut out, leaving them in a still silence. Stirring, Stiles sighed and unclipped his seatbelt before reaching for the door handle. "Well, thanks for the lift," he said. His hand settled on the lever and he pulled, then stared in confusion when the expected give of the mechanism didn't come. Frowning, he tried again, with the same result. It took him far too long to notice the tell-tale red colouring of the lock, and he huffed when he realised that he'd forgotten to unlock the damn thing. "Oh," he murmured to himself, reaching over to flick it off. Man, he was tired.

The lock didn't budge. Stiles' frown deepened, and he pushed harder on the plastic, but it just wasn't moving.

"Johnson, I think you might have hit the childlock –"

Stiles' voice cut off as he twisted in his seat, and his eyes widened in surprise. He was faintly aware that his heart was thumping erratically in his chest, but his mind was so preoccupied with trying to process the sight in front of him that he barely noticed.

Johnson's yellow eyes gleamed brightly in the darkness, the glow of a nearby streetlight illuminating pearly white fangs.

Well, shit.

Stiles moved entirely on instinct. He pressed his back up against the door as his right hand flew out of his sling, reaching for his gun as his shoulder screamed in protest. His fingers had just brushed cool metal when Johnson _twitched_ , and suddenly there was an iron-strong grip around his wrist and his hand was wrenched away painfully. Another movement, and his left hand was similarly restrained.

Taking advantage of his position, Stiles pushed his back further into the door and drew his legs into his chest, ready to lash out with his boots. Johnson seemed to realise exactly what he was doing, though, and he growled as he tore across the gearbox and landed bodily in Stiles' seat. His lean torso crushed up against Stiles' legs, cramming Stiles further into the side of the car and taking away any leverage he could have used to put power into a kick.

Icy fear flooded Stiles' limbs and he let out a terrified moan, twisting furiously against his restraints as he tried to strike out against Johnson with elbows, knees, anything that he could sink into soft flesh. His heart was ready to pound its way out of his chest and he tried to channel his panicked energy into his thrashes, but even as he struggled couldn't deny the voice in the back of his mind that was pointing out that he had lost this fight before it had even started.

Oh god. He was going to die like a genre-blind girl in a Wes Craven movie. This was it.

Johnson growled once more, craning his neck so that his face was inches from Stiles', and Stiles' wide eyes fixed on the fangs so close to his fragile skin. "How could you do this?" Johnson hissed, voice thick through the shift.

What? Stiles flinched, shaking his head in confusion. "What are you talking about?" he somehow managed to force out between panicked breaths.

This time, Johnson's growl was closer to a roar. "Don't lie to me, Stilinski! I know your friends are werewolves, I know they're behind this. And you've been protecting them!"

Stiles' breathing had reached that point of fast and shallow where he was pretty sure he was just moving the same small amount of air back and forth, which would explain why his head was feeling slightly woozy and why this whole situation seemed to be making zero sense. He couldn't catch his breath enough to form any words, so he settled for shaking his head frantically, hoping that Johnson would catch on to his lack of comprehension.

It didn't seem to be working, and Johnson's face was twisted as much by anger as by the werewolf transformation. His grip tightened, and a sharp burst of pain erupted from Stiles' right wrist. Stiles cried out unwillingly, scrunching his eyes shut as though to block it out.

Johnson's warm breath was on his face, his body pressed up against Stiles' legs and his hands circling Stiles' wrists with an unbreakable grip. Stiles' whole world narrowed down to those points of contact, so he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a deafening roar, and a second later the windscreen shattered in a shower of glass.

The contact suddenly vanished, and Stiles' eyes flew open in time to see Johnson be dragged backward, wrenched completely out of the car to disappear into the night. He gasped for breath, mind spinning as he tried to catch up with what just happened. He managed to register the massive hole where the windscreen used to be, then scrambled forward and stared in shock at the scene taking place on the street before him.

Two figures were visible beneath the streetlight, and Stiles' eyes automatically locked on Johnson. He was still wolfed-out, yellow eyes gleaming as he slashed and kicked in an impressive feat of acrobatics. His target fought back fiercely, raking claws over Johnson's face before leaping into the air and landing a kick square in the centre of Johnson's chest. Johnson went flying, but the other figure landed on his feet facing the car and Stiles' eyes widened as he recognised his all-too-familiar features.

Scott's eyes were glowing embers as they fixed on Johnson, who was rolling gracefully to his feet several yards away. Both werewolves held back for a moment in favour of circling the space between them menacingly, clearly sizing each other up. Their muscles were bunched beneath their clothes and their stances clearly broadcast their readiness to leap into battle. Neither of them seemed to care that they were in full view of any unsuspecting neighbours, or that Stiles was still sitting in the car, frantically trying to catch his breath.

Scott growled, baring his fangs, and in that moment Johnson's words finally clicked into place and Stiles' eyes widened in fear. "Wait!" Stiles shouted. Wincing, he scrambled out of his seat and through the broken window, ignoring the new cuts he was collecting from the shards of glass as he slid across the hood and finally landed on the bitumen.

The two werewolves ignored him, entirely focussed on each other, and Stiles let out a small grunt of frustration. His legs were struggling to hold him up, but he grit his teeth and walked closer, planting himself firmly between them.

"Stiles, get out of the way," Scott snarled, eyes not leaving Johnson. Johnson growled in reply, and Stiles couldn't hold back an irritated groan.

"Will the two of you stop posturing for a moment and realise that we're all on the same side here?" he exclaimed.

"He was ready to tear you apart," Scott argued, flexing his fingers, muscles definitely not at all relaxed.

"Stop covering for him, Stilinski," Johnson spat out. "He's a murderer, he has to pay."

Please, God, give him the patience to deal with two idiot werewolves. Stiles took a deliberate deep breath in, and let it out slowly before speaking again. He decided to start with Scott. "Scott, listen to what he's saying. He was attacking me because he thought that I was covering for you, that you're the murderer. So it can't be him, okay? He's on our side."

Spinning, he turned to face Johnson, and made sure to catch his eye before speaking again. "And Johnson, I'm not covering for anyone, alright? Scott's here to help us find the murderer – he wasn't even in town until yesterday. And the reason Lydia knows who the victims are is because she's a banshee, not because she's involved. Listen to my heartbeat, I swear to god I'm telling the truth."

For a moment, Stiles didn't think he would get through to them. For a long moment, Johnson narrowed his eyes at him, weighing his words. Then, finally, something seemed to fall into place. His stance eased as his features melted back into his regular human appearance.

Releasing a breath he didn't realise he was holding, Stiles glanced over his shoulder to see that Scott had also dropped the shift, although he was still watching Johnson warily.

Now that the imminent danger had passed, the oddness of the situation hit home and Stiles' forehead creased as he considered his old friend standing before him. He tilted his head to the side, and asked the question reverberating in his mind before the moment could pass. "Scott, what are you even doing here anyway?"

Scott shifted, eyes flicking over to Stiles from where he had been watching Johnson. "I wanted to talk to you." His voice was beseeching, a sharp contrast to the stubborn determination evident in the set of his jaw.

Stiles sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as he gathered his strength to reply. "Scott –" he started.

For the second time in the last five minutes, Stiles' words cut off mid-sentence, interrupted by a distinct smashing sound. He lost track of what he was going to say, turning in the direction of the noise and frowning when he realised it seemed to be coming from his own house. There was a faint glow illuminating the windows, but there was no way Luke would still be awake. So why was something breaking?

That was when he heard it. It was a sound that Stiles hadn't heard in eight years, and it was distant, so faint that he almost missed it.

Somewhere, Lydia was screaming.

Later, Stiles wouldn't be able to recall how he made it into his house. He must have run there somehow, must have unlocked the door with his keys, but the memory had been erased from his mind. It was as though reality had paused the instant Lydia's voice reached his ears, and suddenly restarted when he stumbled into the living room.

It was the little details that he would never forget. The way that Luke's pupils were so dilated that the blue was almost impossible to see, a faint icy ring around a pool of glassy black. The grazes on the back of his hands, an unmistakeable sign that he had tried to fight back until his very last breath. The faint blue tinge to his lips, almost blending into the shocking grey of his skin. The dark red blood that was drenching every surface imaginable, from the couch they had chosen together to the books that Luke would tease Stiles about for hours on end, to the gag gifts they had given each other every Christmas that stood proudly on a shelf next to the smashed window.

It was the little details that he focussed on, to distract himself from the gaping hole in Luke's chest, from the warm, caring heart that had been ripped away from him. He focussed on those to distract himself from the screams that were ringing in his ears, and the realisation that they were being torn from his own throat.

He focussed on the little details, because they were all that were left holding him together as his world splintered and broke around him.


	9. And The Weight Is Crushing Down

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter! I'm so glad to hear your thoughts on Luke, I had a lot of fun writing him and am stoked that you all enjoyed him so much.

This chapter's the big one and it took me a while to figure out Stiles' voice for this one, so let me know if it works for you!

* * *

 **Chapter 8 – And The Weight Is Crushing Down**

 _Please state your name and date of birth for the record._

 _Stiles – oh, fuck, sorry. Meonenim Stilinski, April 8_ _th_ _, 1995._

 _Okay, Stiles. Now I'm sorry to have to do this, but we'll need to walk us through what happened tonight. When you're ready, we'll start with the basics._

 _Sure. I'm ready._

 _What was your relationship to Luke?_

 _He was my…he was. Shit. I can't do this – I can't – I can't –_

The walls were warping, closing in on him, and Stiles lost sight of Brady. Her worried voice faded to a whisper as the world tilted sickeningly on its axis. His stomach lurched at the sight, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly to block it out. There was a ringing noise in his ears that was obscuring all the other sounds so his world drew inward, consisting only of the tearing sensation in his chest and a harsh sandpaper sensation of his throat as his breaths came in short irregular bursts.

His fingers were prickling with pins and needles, and Stiles noticed abstractly that his lips were doing the same. His stomach heaved, and he swallowed acid in his throat as he struggled to control his spasming abdominal muscles. He could no longer feel the chair beneath him or the table that he was pretty sure he had been gripping; it was as though the floor had given way beneath him and he was falling into an eternity of nothingness.

He was falling, and for the first time in a long time, there was no one there to catch him. Luke's blue eyes swam next to his father's, watching him accusingly, and his heart pounded even harder. _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry_. The words repeated endlessly through his mind but their expressions remained the same, and bile traced its way up his chest, fuelled with a burning guilt that could never be extinguished.

He didn't know how long he was trapped in the void, but eventually it changed and there was something in there with him. It wasn't a person, at first. It was a firm pressure on his shoulders, a gentle voice threaded with a low hum of panic. There was something familiar about it, though, something that a visceral part of him responded to without his consent, and Stiles found himself being pulled unwillingly toward it.

The voice continued, and when he concentrated, he realised that he could make out some sounds. "Stiles," the voice said, and he realised that it was trying to talk to him. He focussed, turning his face in the direction of the voice, and slowly his vision cleared enough for him to be able to make out a face inches from his own.

If he hadn't immediately known it was Scott, the glowing red eyes would have confirmed it. Scott was quick to catch him looking and he spoke in a voice that commanded authority as his eyes burned into Stiles' own. "Stiles, you need to slow your breathing, okay? Breathe with me."

Stiles would have retorted that it wasn't that easy when his body was completely beyond his control, but he didn't have the breath. And besides, a small bubble of surprise worked its way through the gripping panic at the realisation that his breathing _was_ slowing down. A part of him was responding to Scott in a way that he didn't have the right to anymore, and Stiles filed that away in a part of his brain to analyse at a time when he wasn't having trouble figuring out where the floor was.

It was getting better though. His breathing was slowing, and Scott was coming back into high-definition. He could feel the floor beneath him again – apparently he had fallen out of the chair at some point – and although it was still wobbly the ground seemed to be evening out a little.

Scott blinked, his eyes flickering back to their normal dark brown as he watched Stiles carefully. "Are you with me?" he asked slowly.

Stiles nodded, then immediately regretted it as the world spun. Closing his eyes for a moment, he inhaled deeply, letting the air out in a shaky but reasonably well-controlled breath before reopening his eyes. His heart rate was gradually slowing, and the tearing sensation had receded slightly. More importantly, the world was solid again.

Licking his cracked lips, Stiles looked past Scott to where Lydia was hovering a few feet away, then behind her where Coulson, Brady and Sheriff were all watching him with concern. Right. He was at the station, in the middle of giving his statement. That explained the detectives, at least. How Scott and Lydia had ended up in this room was more of a mystery, but one that could wait. After all, it was Scott and Lydia. They seemed to gravitate toward commotion at the best of times.

Stiles tried to speak, then paused and swallowed at the scratchy sound that emerged. Turning back to Scott, he tried again. "Yeah, I'm here," he managed to say. "Sorry."

"Don't be." Surprisingly, it was the Sheriff who spoke. He was standing just inside the door to the interview room, shrewd eyes examining Stiles carefully.

It was making him nervous, so Stiles spoke up before he could continue. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I didn't mean to freak out on you." This he directed at Brady. She was pale, lips twitching nervously. It was a strange look on her, and Stiles felt a fresh wave of guilt for putting her through this. "I'm good now, we can keep going," he offered.

Scott jerked from his position on the floor and Lydia's eyes burned a fiery green in his direction, but it was the Sheriff who responded, taking a few extra steps into the room and lowering himself down to Stiles' level. His face was stern, but his voice was surprisingly gentle. "Stilinski, I'm not letting you do this, not right now," he said softly. "You need some time to heal. So you're going to leave and I don't want to see you back here for at least a good few weeks, okay?"

The meaning behind his words sunk in, and Stiles' eyes widened with an entirely new surge of panic. "You can't take me off the case!"

There was a strange sort of sadness in the Sheriff's eyes that Stiles had never seen before. "I couldn't let you work it even if I wanted to, son," he said, and there was a genuine pain in his voice that made the protest die on Stiles' lips. "You're too close to it all. It wouldn't be objective."

He took a step closer, and made sure to look Stiles in the eye as he spoke. The sadness vanished from his voice, replaced by steel determination. "But we will catch the bastard, and we will make him pay. I promise you that."

Stiles held his gaze for a long moment, before breaking off to look back at the floor. He appreciated the sentiment, but that was a promise the Sheriff couldn't make and they both knew it.

The silence stretched onward, and finally it was Lydia who broke it. She didn't speak, instead stepping closer to Stiles and wrapping her hand gently around his upper arm. The pressure she applied was slight but Stiles was too drained to resist, so he followed her guiding touch until he was standing on his feet. She trailed her hand lightly down his arm until she reached his hand, and interlaced their fingers with a familiarity that felt so right that Stiles didn't even think to question it. Instead, he turned his head to meet her eyes and found that she was watching him the same fierce determination that she had previously used to guide him back from another level of consciousness – twice.

And, well. If she could do that, then maybe she could guide him back from this, too. Pressing his lips together, Stiles nodded, and Lydia squeezed his hand in reply. Then she broke his gaze to turn in the direction of the door, and took the first step forward. Stiles stumbled for a moment before finding his feet, then he followed her out of the room on shaky legs.

They were silent as they made their way past the detectives, Scott following close behind, and as they traced a path out of the station and into Lydia' car. It was only after they had been driving for a few minutes that Stiles frowned at the change in scenery and finally spoke. "Where are you taking me?"

Lydia hesitated, glancing at him before turning her attention back to the road. "Back to my motel room."

Right. Because Stiles couldn't go home. Because home was now a crime scene. _I'm so sorry_.

"Unless there's somewhere else you'd rather be?" Scott's voice soft and tentative. It was a strange sound on him, and Stiles frowned, glancing over his shoulder. Scott was staring at the back of the passenger seat, carefully avoiding Stiles' eyes. His expression was completely blank, and it took a moment before Stiles realised what he was doing. He was deliberately leaving it up to Stiles. This was his chance. If he was ever going to walk away from Scott McCall, this was the moment.

But he was just so tired, bones aching with fatigue. He was so tired of running, of pain, of loss. So tired of having to put himself back together over and over again.

Stiles shook his head, and they fell into silence once more.

When they finally arrived, he opened the door on autopilot and put one foot after another as he followed Lydia to her room. He stood patiently while she searched for her key, and waited for the familiar sound of the lock turning in the door. But then he crossed the threshold as Scott pulled the door closed behind him, and Stiles pulled to a halt.

The room was so normal. Twin beds tucked neatly against a wall, a towel tossed carelessly over a chair, two travel bags pushed into a corner. An old TV sat silently on a cheap stand, faint sounds drifted through the thin walls, and the carpet clearly hadn't been updated in the last twenty years.

Everything was so normal, but how could it be? Luke was gone, but this room continued on as though nothing had happened.

His throat burned, and suddenly his eyes stung with unshed tears. His feet fumbled, but Stiles managed to walk the few steps to the nearest bed and lay down before he could fall. _I'm so sorry_. His heart tore in his chest, and he choked back a sob. Luke would have been there with a comforting hug, but Luke couldn't be there, and would never be there again.

He faintly registered light footsteps, and then the mattress sank down behind him. Confused, Stiles glanced over his shoulder. Lydia was there, barefoot and eyes bright with sympathy as she crawled up the bed and rested on her side behind him. Then there was a gentle touch on his hand, and Stiles whipped his head back around to see Scott settling himself down on the floor beside the bed, one hand covering Stiles' own.

His vision blurred and for a moment Stiles struggled, jaw working as he tried to find the words. But then Lydia's soft body pressed up against his back as her arm wrapped around his torso, pulling him to her chest, and Stiles gave in.

Her arms were warm around him, and Scott was a comforting presence, and Stiles had been trying so hard to keep going, but he was sewn together so roughly and the thread was starting to fray.

He was falling apart, and he was so tired of fighting. So he let himself break, and hoped they would be there to put him back together when it was over.

* * *

There was a weak beam of sunlight dancing directly into Stiles' eyes, and he frowned in annoyance as he woke. The first thing he noticed was that his head was pounding and his limbs were filled with a bone-deep exhaustion. He didn't have time to analyse it further before he was distracted by the distinct realisation that he wasn't alone. Messy dark hair occupied the corner of his vision, and he craned his neck slightly to see smooth olive skin and a familiar face. Scott was sitting on the floor by the bed, back propped up against the wall, fast asleep. There was a slender arm loosely looped over his chest, and Stiles carefully rolled over until he could make out Lydia's delicate features, eyes closed and expression relaxed with sleep.

For a moment, Stiles stared at her in confusion. Then the events of the night hit home, accompanied by a fresh stab of pain.

The agony that filled him was a shadow of what it had been, he realised with surprise. It was as though he had already burned through all his reserves and he had nothing left to give. Instead, the pain gave way to a cold emptiness, spreading through him from his chest down into his limbs. As the emptiness deepened, his grief and exhaustion faded to a distant ache, and, okay, that was different.

For a moment he lay still, listening to the sounds of his old friends' slow breathing and staring at nothing in particular. When the plan came to him, it was fully-formed. There was no excitement stirring within him at the idea, and none of his usual nervousness. Any reaction he might have had was drowned out so completely by the void that he couldn't find it in him to care.

Manoeuvring out of bed without waking Scott or Lydia was a carefully-planned endeavour, and Stiles couldn't help a detached feeling of pride when after a few minutes he successfully made it to his feet. Crossing the room with soft steps was easy, but rummaging through Scott's bag without making a noise was a different challenge. He couldn't help a few soft thumps, but a glance back at the others reassured him that they hadn't woken.

Fortunately, Scott hadn't packed much, so it didn't take long for Stiles to find a shirt and jeans that looked like they might fit him. He changed quickly, securing his gun in the waistband of the jeans and covering it with the thankfully loose shirt before stuffing an extra magazine into his pocket. Then he reached for his old trousers, slipping his phone out of his pocket and noting with vague relief that he still had a small amount of battery left. Typing out a quick text message took less than a minute, and after that all he had left to do was cross the carpeted floor with one last glance at his old friends and hold his breath as he quietly opened the door to the motel room. One step over the threshold, one intense moment where he flinched at the small creak of the door's hinges as he eased it shut, and another when he listened closely to ensure the silence of the room continued. Then, finally, he was free.

It was only a short walk to the location he had texted, but somehow Johnson managed to beat him there. The other deputy was similarly dressed in loose jeans and a T-shirt that showed off his well-defined arms, and he frowned at Stiles' appearance as he approached.

"You shouldn't be doing this," he said by way of greeting.

Stiles would have felt annoyed, if that cold emptiness wasn't still flooding him. "I have to," he responded in lieu of a sarcastic retort. "Are you in or out?"

Johnson ignored the question, instead narrowing his eyes at the bulge where Stiles' gun was undoubtedly outlined before flicking up to examine his shoulder. "Where's your sling?" he asked instead. No amount of careful detachment could hide the disapproval in his voice.

Stiles rolled his shoulder, testing it gingerly before replying. "I can handle it," he assured him. "I'm a decent shot with my left hand, but I'd rather have both arms free just in case." He didn't mention the sharp pain emanating from his swollen wrist, where Johnson had grabbed him so many hours ago. It didn't seem relevant.

Johnson didn't look reassured, and this time Stiles really did feel annoyed. "You didn't answer my question," he pointed out sharply.

Johnson's dark eyes snapped back to Stiles' face and his expression was grim when he responded. "I'm in," he growled. "Partly to stop you from getting your stupid ass killed, and mostly because Luke was one of the few genuinely decent people I've ever been fortunate enough to meet. I can't bring him back but I can damn well make his murderer suffer for it."

It wasn't the most supportive of statements but Stiles would take what he could get. "Good," he bit out. "Did you catch a scent last night?"

Johnson nodded. "I did one better. I followed it out to the edge of the woods before I turned back. I'm sure I can pick it up again."

Stiles took a step forward. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's go."

Johnson led the way to the cruiser that he had clearly borrowed from the station and on any other day Stiles would have made a comment about the conspicuous ride. Right then, though, he couldn't bring himself to care. A car was a car, none of it would matter at the end of the day.

The short drive was similar to the day before in that the radio was off and neither of them spoke, so Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin when a cheerful tune broke the silence. It was coming from his pocket, and Stiles drew out his phone to see Lydia's name plastered on the screen. Well, that didn't take long. He tapped on the red symbol deliberately, then held down the off button and watched the screen turn to black before slipping it back into his pocket.

Johnson was watching him out of the corner of his eye, and Stiles nodded half-heartedly. "That was Lydia. They'll probably think I just wanted some time to myself. I'd say we have maybe half an hour before they realise I'm really gone – we've still got time."

Johnson grunted by way of reply, and finally turned the car off the main road onto a dirt track leading up the edge of the woods. Killing the engine, he gave Stiles one last questioning look, and Stiles pressed his lips together with determination before cracking the door open and leaving the cruiser. Yes, he knew he could still turn back. No, he wasn't going to, not a chance.

He gestured for Johnson to take the lead and the werewolf complied, slipping into his game face as they headed between the trees. He kept the pace slow enough for Stiles to keep up, and Stiles would have felt grateful if he had it in him to feel anything. Instead, he just focussed on the steel determination within him, the comforting weight of his Glock at his hip, and the trail that Johnson was making through the woods.

They had been walking for maybe half an hour when the trees started to thin and Johnson slowed. Stiles crept up beside him, peering through the trunks. Sure enough, they had reached a break in the woods. A long, grassy paddock with a few grazing horses stretched before them, and beyond that stood a small red-brick farmhouse and nearby barn. It was right out of a fairytale, if that fairytale also included grisly murders and organ thieves.

The paddock was too wide for them to cross without being seen, so Stiles gestured to the left, where a small crop of trees broke the plain between the woods and the back of the house. "That way," he said, and Johnson looked where he was pointing and nodded in agreement.

There was no real reason for Johnson to lead at this point but he did anyway, keeping them a few yards into the woods as he circled the homestead. Stiles fell a few steps behind, concentrating on relaxing the muscles around his shoulder and gently flexing his wrist back and forth to ease the stiffness that had settled in overnight. It seemed to help, and by the time they had changed direction and headed for the copse of trees, Stiles could move both joints relatively well. They both now ached with a constant dull pain that radiated through his arm, but that was okay. Stiles could deal with pain, so long as he could move.

From their current position, Stiles could make out a flyscreen door on the back of the house, a good twenty yards of open grassland away. Licking his lips, he turned to Johnson and spoke in a whisper. "Can you tell how many are inside?" he asked.

Johnson squinted, concentrating. After a moment, he moved his head in a strange cross between a nod and a shrug. "Two humans in the house," he responded. "Plus a few animals, I think. I'm not sure if there's any others on the property itself – there's too many horse and cattle heartbeats getting in the way."

Stiles nodded. "Good enough." They could take two. He reached for his Glock, turning off the safety and shifting it into his left hand. He hadn't been lying, he was a decent shot with his off hand. Or, well, he had been, the last time he tried. He resolutely ignored the fact that he hadn't practiced a left-hand shoot in a long time, instead setting his jaw. "Ready?"

Johnson's glance indicated that he really didn't think Stiles was ready, but he thankfully kept his thoughts to himself. Instead, he flexed his fingers, testing his claws, and took off toward the back door like a shot, Stiles hot on his heels.

The door was locked, but that wasn't an issue for long. Growling, Johnson gripped the handle and pulled, tearing the door off its hinges as metal screamed in protest. There went the element of surprise, Stiles thought grimly. Darting through the doorframe, Stiles kept Johnson at his right as he aimed his weapon into the house. They were in a laundry, and a small, feline face peered out from under a sink before retreating. Ignoring the cat, Stiles kept pace with Johnson, sweeping the rest of the room as they moved through. It was empty, so they climbed the three stairs that led up to the main house and found themselves in a kitchen.

The room was occupied, but not with the man that Stiles was looking for. Two women – one twenty-something, one middle-aged – were backed up against the sink, eyes wide and terrified. One of them was staring at Johnson in shock, seemingly unable to move, and the other was trembling with what Stiles assumed was fear. She was the older woman, and her right hand was clutching a steak knife as though it was her last line of safety, knuckles white as her fingers clenched around the handle.

Stiles' aim was surprisingly steady when he trained his gun on her chest.

"Stay away from us!" the older lady demanded, or tried to. Her voice was loud, but it shook on the last word and her terror was leaking from her very pores.

Stiles glared, not the least bit swayed. "Not until you tell us where he is," he snarled.

The twenty-something seemed to snap out of her shock, blue eyes landing on Stiles. His stomach lurched, the familiar colour tearing at a part of him that was currently knitted together with nothing but determination and that cold, empty void. But, no. He couldn't afford to fall apart now. Clenching his teeth, Stiles shifted his gun to focus on her instead as she opened her mouth to speak.

"We don't know what you're talking about!" Unlike the other lady – her mother, perhaps? – the girl's voice was quiet, pleading, and Stiles hesitated a little before steeling himself.

"I'm talking about the man who's murdered over a dozen people," Stiles replied, voice deliberately harsh. He ignored the guilt swirling at the edges of his mind and focussed instead on the emptiness and the fire of hatred that was burning within. "The only reason you're still alive right now is because I know for a fact that he's male, and you're my best lead. But there's two of you and I only need one, so if you don't start talking I might decide that you're disposable after all."

The older woman's eyes snapped with fury and Stiles had a feeling he was right about their relationship. He kept his gaze on his captives, ignoring Johnson's shocked gaze boring into him. This wasn't what the other deputy had in mind, he was sure, but Stiles knew the emptiness wouldn't last and he had only one shot at this. The usual methods weren't working, it was time to try something different.

Stiles kept his gun trained on the girl even as his eyes settled on her mother. "It's an easy enough choice," he pointed out. "Is this murderer worth the life of your daughter? Your call."

The woman's breath caught, and she seemed to realise he was serious. Well, that was good. At least Stiles was convincing someone, because he sure as hell wasn't convincing himself. Void or not, he didn't think he could really pull the trigger on an unarmed civilian, but they didn't need to know that. Keeping his face carefully blank, Stiles raised an eyebrow at the mother. "Well?"

The woman's eyes drifted from his face to fix on a space over his shoulder, and that was all the warning Stiles had before a small explosion rocked the room. The deafening crack made Stiles jerk in surprise milliseconds before warm fluid landed on his face. His eyes widened, heart pounding as he stared at his gun in shock. A sickening dread hovered at the edge of the emptiness as he raised his gaze back to his two captives, but they hadn't moved, and both seemed miraculously unharmed.

It was a crash by his side that finally alerted Stiles to what had happened, and his neck twisted in time to see Johnson collapse to the ground. There was a mess of blood, skull and brain where the side of his head used to be, and Stiles' stomach roiled as he realised where the flesh on his face had come from.

His training kicked in before his mind could, and Stiles spun the rest of the way around, ignoring the pain in his shoulder to steady his gun with his right hand as he trained the barrel on the chest of the man before him. The newcomer's dark brown eyes were familiar, and Stiles' shock was overwhelmed with white-hot rage when he recognised the man who had nearly killed him not so long ago.

There was one thing that cut through his anger, though, and that was the strange realisation of just how _normal_ the man looked. Stiles didn't know what he had expected of the monster he was hunting, but this wasn't it. He was of average size and average build. Mousy brown hair topped a weathered face, and the hands gripping the shotgun aimed at Stiles' chest bore all the signs of hard labour. He wore a faded, long-sleeved shirt that was covered in dirt and dust, and his jeans were clearly designed for work rather than play. The man was maybe in his fifties or sixties, and when his gaze settled on Stiles his expression was a strange mix of fierce protectiveness and heartbreaking regret.

"Put the gun down, son," the man said, and even his voice was normal, a steady, calm sound cutting through the sudden silence of the room.

Stiles tightened his grip around his Glock, breath suddenly shaky. "Not a chance," he replied. His finger twitched lightly against the cool trigger. This was it. This was why he had come here, this was why Johnson lay dead at his feet. One twitch of his finger, and it would be over. So why was he hesitating?

The man's face hardened, his grip tightening on the shotgun, and Stiles acted before he could think about it. Stepping backwards, he reached out to his side and grabbed hold of a skinny arm. The girl was small and was too frightened to put up much resistance, so it was easy to drag her in front of him and press the barrel of his gun into the side of her head.

The man froze, taking one hand off his shotgun and raising his palm in a universal expression of peace. "You're the cop, aren't you? The one I shot?" he asked, face morphing with recognition and, strangely, relief.

Stiles frowned in confusion at his expression, and nodded jerkily in response. "I'm the cop whose boyfriend you murdered," he corrected with a snarl, wrapping an arm around the girl's torso and tightening his hold in response to her whimpers. The emptiness swirled, and his arms were steady as he held his position. The man flinched backward, a flash of distress appearing on his face before he reeled himself in, face a neutral mask when he raised his eyes to Stiles once more.

"His name was Luke," Stiles said flatly. There was a flare of pain at the edges of his consciousness, but he steadily ignored it. "He was a teacher. He had two sisters, he studied physics as a hobby, and he secretly loved dancing even though he was terrible at it. Did you know that? Or was he just another source of organs for you?"

The man was watching him carefully and he seemed to be considering something before he spoke. "I'm sorry," he finally said, softly. Strangely, his voice was filled with regret, and his eyes were radiating pain when he met Stiles' gaze. He seemed genuine, and Stiles' limbs were suddenly filled with lead, and he couldn't move even if he wanted to. "I didn't have a choice."

The words tore at him, battering at the fragile walls of his emptiness. Stiles inhaled sharply, swallowing against a sudden lump in his throat, and then he heard it.

The girl was crying.

The girl was crying, and with that his walls shattered into a thousand pieces. All of the emotions that had been whirling at the edges surged forward, warring for dominance. Grief, guilt, anger, despair; his arms trembled and his eyes stung with tears.

He released his hold on the girl, not watching as she scrambled out of the way, and let his gun fall to his side as he finally replied. "There's always a choice," he said weakly.

 _There's always a choice._ Scott's words echoed in synchrony with his own, and Stiles let out a bitter laugh, the familiar pain constricting his chest. If Luke could only see him now. What the hell was he doing?

The man was pale, and Stiles noticed with surprise that his eyes were red with unshed tears as he shook his head. There was no reason for him to continue the conversation, but he did anyway. "It's my grandson." His voice was lined with desperation, his expression begged forgiveness, and Stiles shook his head in confusion.

The man shifted his weight, revealing a shaggy dog that had been concealed behind him. No, not a dog, Stiles realised with a rush. A wolf.

The wolf was small, more of a pup, really, and Stiles eyes' widened as the pieces finally, _finally_ , fell into place. The man's obvious pain at his actions, the fierce protectiveness of the women at his back, the spellbook listing away in Lydia's motel room. The realisation of what had happened hit him like a brick, and Stiles flinched back instinctively as he raised his gaze to the man.

All that pain, all those agonising deaths and destroyed families, and the answer was so simple _._

Stiles wanted to tell him what was running through his head, but his voice had abandoned him, a painful lump residing in his throat in its place. Something of his horror must have shown on his face, though, because the man's expression closed off, his arms raising the shotgun once more as his eyes fixed on Stiles with steely determination.

Stiles started to raise his Glock on pure instinct before he deliberately stopped himself, licking his lips as he struggled to find the right words, but he never got the chance.

There was a rush of footsteps from behind him, and his skull suddenly exploded with pain. He cried out, vaguely aware that his arms were jerking reflexively, but then the agony in his head doubled and the world crashed into impenetrable darkness.


	10. No Bravery In Your Eyes Anymore

**Chapter 9 – No Bravery In Your Eyes Anymore, Just Sadness**

His head was killing him.

That was Stiles' first thought when he drifted back to consciousness. There was a throbbing pain originating from somewhere in the back of his head, spreading throughout his entire skull and tracing its way down his neck.

He let out a groan, fluttering his eyes open with a wince. The room was dim, thank god, but even the faint light trickling through windows somewhere beyond his sight stabbed into him. His eyes watered with pain and the world spun in a way that turned his stomach, so he gave up on vision and closed his eyes once more, focussing instead on drawing deep breaths to settle his nausea.

Great, another concussion. That was something Stiles definitely could do without.

Ignoring the weakness in his limbs, Stiles tried to sit up with the faint hope that if he did vomit then at least it wouldn't all go into his lungs. He didn't make it very far, though, with something pressing into his chest and preventing him from moving more than a fraction. Frowning, Stiles reopened his eyes and squinted, trying to gather a sense of where he was. He was lying flat on his back, he determined, staring up at a high wooden ceiling with sunlight filtering through the cracks.

It looked like a barn, and that didn't make any sense. What made even less sense was that his arms were spreadeagled by his side, his legs lying perfectly straight before him. His bad shoulder screamed in protest at the position and Stiles winced, trying to drag it closer in to his side, but his movement was cut short by something pressing into his wrist. When Stiles tried to turn and see what was going on he found that his head was similarly restrained, twin bands of pressure holding him in place by his chin and his forehead.

Panic swept through him and Stiles' eyes widened as he frantically pulled at his limbs. His muscles clenched as he struggled, but the most he could manage was an inch or two of movement in his right foot, the rest of him securely strapped down to whatever hard surface he was lying on. His breathing became ragged, a harsh sound in his ears, and Stiles could feel his heart pounding against his chest as he stared unwillingly at the ceiling.

Light footsteps approached from somewhere to his right and Stiles strained his eyes as far as he could, desperately trying to make out a figure. A woman gradually came into view – the mother from earlier, he realised, the events coming back to him in a rush.

He stared up at the woman with renewed panic, terror tearing at his chest. Somehow, he knew exactly where this was going.

She was watching him with a frown, a strange mix of fear and hatred twisting her features. "You're awake," she observed, unnecessarily. "I was hoping you'd stay out for the next part."

And wasn't that just what Stiles wanted to hear. "Please," he begged, voice scratchy. "I can help, I promise, just let me go."

His heart sank as the woman shook her head. "You murdered my husband," she said, and her voice cracked on the words even as her face hardened with fierce determination. "And I have work to do."

"Wait, no-" Stiles' protests faded to an indecipherable grunt as she forced a strip of fabric into his mouth, pulling cruelly until his lips were stretched into a mockery of a grin. The cotton tore into his jaw and he retched, desperately trying to suppress a sudden surge of nausea as she secured the crude gage somewhere behind his head.

"We never wanted to have to do this, you know," she explained, and Stiles' eyes widened even further as he grunted, desperately trying to form words. She ignored him, disappearing from his view even as she continued to speak. "We went to so many people for advice, but no one could help us. Until, finally, someone could."

There were some disturbing thumps coming from behind his head and Stiles struggled futilely, trying to stop his imagination from running wild as to what she could possibly be doing back there. He really, _really_ wished he hadn't gone through a horror movie phase in middle school.

"It sounds barbaric, and Jo tried to talk us out of it," the woman continued. "But what could we do? He's our grandson."

Despite the situation, Stiles couldn't help but roll his eyes. _Because that justifies serial homicide, sure._ A fresh wave of acid guilt washed over him, though, as her previous statement finally sank in. In those last moments before he blacked out, he could remember the unmistakeable sound of a gunshot as his hand involuntary clenched around his trigger. He squirmed, flooded with regret as he remembered the tearful expression the man had been wearing. Despite everything he had done, the man had seemed more desperate than evil, and Stiles had a feeling he would have seen reason.

This woman, however, was another story.

A mechanical whirring sound reached his ears and Stiles' terror increased, panting harsh and shallow against his gag. The footsteps grew louder as she approached, and the mechanical sound followed.

"Mark used the last of our anaesthetic, I'm afraid," the woman said, oddly regretful. "And the spell works better when the organs are fresh, so I can't kill you until afterward." There was a pause as she brushed a finger against his hair. "I doubt you'll live long once I start cutting into brain tissue, anyway."

Stiles gave up on trying to breathe, instead gathering all his remaining energy and channelling it into screaming as loudly as he could against his gag. His heart was pounding an erratic rhythm against his chest and he struggled hear his voice over the ever-increasing mechanical whirring, which was now terrifyingly close to his ears, and that was when Stiles realised something.

He wasn't the only one who was screaming.

A loud bang sounded from somewhere to his left and the woman jerked upright. The whir was drowned out by another hoarse scream, and Stiles gasped for breath as he strained his eyes as far as they would go. It was difficult, but when he tried he could just make out a familiar figure outlined by the now-open door, tensed and ready for a fight. He couldn't see her face, but that was alright. He would have known her anywhere.

There was a soft thump from behind him as the mechanical sound abruptly cut off, replaced by a sudden metallic click. Stiles' eyes widened even further and he cried out against his gag, anger and fear streaming through him as he recognised the sound of a safety being removed. That bitch had taken his gun, he just knew it.

"Hold it right there," the woman said, fury lining her voice. Lydia froze, raising her hands, and Stiles held his breath in anticipation. She had to have expected a weapon, so that could only mean one thing - Scott must be waiting nearby for an opportunity to dropkick the woman into the next century. _C'mon, Scott, this is your chance._

The moment dragged on, and Stiles frowned in confusion as Scott failed to appear. Lydia was a good distance away, so unless the woman was secretly a sharp shooter the chance of her making the shot while fighting off an alpha werewolf were pretty slim. This was probably the best chance Scott was going to get, so where the hell was he?

Then a cold, hard surface pressed against his skull, and Stiles grunted with realisation. Fuck. Scott might be fast, but no amount of werewolf speed would stop that bullet.

Stiles couldn't see the woman, but he glared in her general direction anyway, frustration temporarily overwhelming his fear. If he could just move his arms...

The woman was still speaking. "That's better," she said. "Now you are going to keep your back to the wall and start walking toward the first stall. No fast movements, or his brain will be splattered all over the ground."

"Okay, you've got me, I'm going." Lydia voice was high-pitched and uneven, and Stiles' breathing picked up at the sound. That tone was tragically familiar, and it only confirmed his suspicions that their plan had already fallen to pieces. Which meant that the woman now had two hostages, and that Lydia's life was on the line because of him. Again.

The guilt surged forward and Stiles swallowed, terrified of what would happen if he vomited in this position. He distracted himself by studying Lydia as she edged closer, desperately trying to find some solace in her appearance. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and for once she wasn't wearing heels, instead settling for sturdy boots. Her eyes were radiating fury, darting back and forth between Stiles and the woman behind him as she slowly picked her way across the floor.

She had made it several metres when her expression shifted. Her eyes flicked upward to focus on something above Stiles' head and her jaw became set with determination. It was a subtle change and he doubted that the woman would notice, but Stiles picked up on it instantly. Following her gaze, his eyes widened even further and heart rate ticked up a notch as he spied Scott. His old friend was precariously balanced on rafters near the ceiling, mouth drawn into a tight line as he took in the scene below.

As Stiles watched, Scott lowered himself from the rafters until he was dangling by his hands, carefully positioned directly behind the woman. Stiles tensed, realising what he was planning, and squeezed his eyes shut. Sure enough, there was a soft thump as Scott hit the floor, and Stiles' whole body flinched, waiting for the explosion.

A few moments passed, but it never came. Cautiously, Stiles cracked open his eyes, unable to stop himself from breathing erratically with shock. God only knew how the woman had missed that thud, but somehow she must not have heard it. And thank god for that.

He was so distracted with marvelling at his luck that he almost jumped out of his skin when the woman suddenly shouted, the pressure of the cold metal vanishing from his skull. Scott had disappeared from view, he realised with a jolt, and Stiles strained his eyes desperately. Try as he might, though, he couldn't make out anything more than shadows.

There were a few sickening crunches of flesh against flesh before a scream shattered the air. Stiles flinched, the sound ringing painfully in his ears, and then jerked at a flash of movement to his right. He glanced over in time to see the woman go flying, crashing into the far wall before falling into a limp pile on the floor. Stiles watched her warily, eyes wide and heart pounding, but she didn't so much as twitch, and his limbs shook as he was flooded with relief.

Hurried footsteps approached from his left, and Stiles looked over and relaxed a little when he saw Lydia racing to his side, intact and unhurt. "Stiles," she breathed, voice a conflicted mess of relief and concern, and Stiles widened his eyes at her and grunted in return.

She seemed to get the message, forgoing any further greetings in favour of untying his gag. It took a few minutes, but finally the pressure released and he could breathe again.

Frantically working his jaw to moisten his dry tongue, Stiles looked at Lydia, who was concentrating on unbuckling one of the straps holding down his head. When he spoke, his throat burned and his voice was croaky. "Did you get the other one as well?"

The confusion in Lydia's green eyes was enough of an answer but Scott's voice still responded from somewhere near Stiles' feet, which, Stiles suddenly realised, had been released from their restraints.

"What other one?"

"The girl. The younger one."

Lydia shook her head, and Stiles felt his panic return full-force. Shit. Where was she?

Lydia finally released the last strap from his head as Scott sliced through the binds around his arms and chest, and Stiles pulled himself into a sitting position with a groan. His muscles cramped in protest, and he was forced to close his eyes again as vertigo struck into him with a vengeance. It was nearly a minute before the world stopped spinning and his nausea settled somewhat, but finally Stiles cracked open his eyes and rubbed his burning shoulder as he took in his surroundings.

He was sitting on a workman's bench in the middle of an empty barn, which would explain why his back was so sore. The woman was still sprawled on the packed earth floor to his right, and behind him an abandoned circular saw dug sharp teeth into the dirt.

Stiles' stomach roiled at the sight and he quickly looked away, distracting himself by studying the barn itself. It clearly didn't get much use as the stalls lining the walls were mostly empty save for one down the far end of the building. Peering closer, Stiles could make out the corners of a strong metal cage built into the far stall, and now that his panic was easing off and his senses were returning to him, he could hear a low-pitched growl emanating from that direction.

Frowning, Stiles slipped off the bench and slowly walked toward the sound, deliberately not thinking about his precarious balance and throbbing head. He was vaguely aware that Scott and Lydia were watching him with concern, following a few feet behind, but he ignored them. As he approached, more of the cage came into view, and finally he stopped a few metres away, studying the animal inside.

The wolf didn't look much like a pup anymore. It still had that thick, fluffy coat from earlier, but its eyes were blazing yellow and its mouth was drawn back into a snarl, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. Its gaze was fixed on Stiles, and as Stiles watched the wolf slammed his head against the cage ferociously, testing for a way out.

"Is that…?" Lydia trailed off, her question answered as wolf turned his glowing yellow eyes on her. Stiles nodded anyway.

"He's her grandson," Stiles explained wearily. "His mother's around here too, somewhere. They were trying to save him."

"They were trying to turn him back to human." Scott's voice was strained, and Stiles swallowed against the burning in his throat. He let out a shaky breath, finally turning away from the wolf pup to fix his gaze on Scott.

"You did it for Malia. Think you can do it again?"

There was a flash of movement from his right and Stiles whipped his head around, instinctively reaching for a gun that wasn't there. It didn't matter, though, he realised with surprise. Scott's features warped into a ferocious snarl at his left and Lydia stepped up protectively to cover his right, muscles tense for the second time that day. He narrowed his eyes at her, the strangeness of it all finally registering through his concussion. What the hell? When had Lydia learned to fight?

Stiles noted the question down in his ever-expanding 'things to ask when not in a crisis situation' pile, and refocussed on the figure that had caught his eye. The shadow moved closer, and finally Stiles recognised the younger woman from earlier. Jo, if he recalled correctly. She was trembling, gripping onto her father's shotgun with a stance that announced her inexperience.

Inexperience didn't mean she wasn't dangerous, though, Stiles reminded himself, as she lifted the gun and pointed the barrel directly at his chest.

And, okay, maybe he deserved it, but even so Stiles was getting pretty sick of this family trying to kill him. "Will you please just put the gun down and let me talk?" he cried out, frustration bleeding into his voice and drowning out any sympathy he might have conveyed.

Jo's eyes narrowed in response and she tightened her grip on the shotgun, arms suddenly steady as she glared him down. Stiles winced. Maybe he wasn't the best at diplomacy after all.

"Uh, Scott?" Stiles prompted, voice more uneven than he had hoped. "Maybe you should give the explanation."

He could feel Scott's eyes glance at him before turning back to the girl. "Do you know what I am?" he began, cautiously.

Jo's eyes flicked to him, and a flash of fear crossed her face as she took in his ridged forehead and pointed ears. She shook her head.

"I'm a werewolf," Scott explained in a gentle voice. He took a step forward, planting himself directly in front of Stiles, and, well. Stiles glared at his back, because he could take care of himself, thank you very much, but at the same time he couldn't deny a surge of gratefulness at the gesture. He had had enough near-death experiences for one day.

"Your son's a werewolf, too," Scott was saying as Stiles dragged his attention back to the conversation, "and I don't know how he got trapped in wolf form, but he did, didn't he? That's why your family's been taking organs. To try and change him back?"

The girl must have nodded, because Scott took another step forward, arms raised in supplication. "I can help," he offered. "I can change him back, no dead bodies required."

Scott was far enough away that Stiles was able to peer around him, and although Jo's expression had lost its angry edge, she still looked guarded. "How?" she asked, speaking for the first time.

Scott hesitated. "It's hard to explain," he said. "It's because I'm an alpha. He'll listen to me, it's instinctive. If I communicate to him to change back, he will, whether he knows how to or not."

Now Jo just looked confused, but she faltered, lowering the shotgun slightly as she stared at Scott. "Why should I trust you?" she tested.

Scott paused, so Stiles took the opportunity to step around him and look Jo in the eye, ignoring Scott's frustrated glance in his direction. "Jo," Stiles said, and grimaced as she jerked her head in fear at hearing her name from his lips. He did his best to keep his voice gentle as he spoke. "I know you never wanted to hurt anyone, and I know that nothing can undo what your family has done." His voice choked up on those words, but he forced himself to continue. "But we're offering you a solution that means no one else needs to die. Please, just let us try."

Jo studied his face for a long moment, and Stiles did his best to keep his expression as open an honest as possible. Something must have got through, as she finally lowered the gun completely, nodding uncertainly. "Okay," she said nervously. "Okay, you can try."

Stiles' knees nearly gave way with relief, and he stumbled back a few steps as Scott turned without hesitation, making his way back to the cage. The wolf pup started growling again, teeth gnashing as Scott approached, but Scott ignored it. Instead, he crouched down before the cage, catching the wolf's eyes with his own.

For a long moment, they stared at each other, the wolf dropping the aggressive show in favour of going completely still. Then Scott drew in a deep breath, and Stiles clamped his hands over his ears in anticipation.

It was a completely useless gesture, in the end. Scott's roar rattled him to his very bones, and Stiles felt a strange pull at the sound, a sudden, primal need to be by Scott's side. His feet moved without his permission, carrying him a few steps in Scott's direction before he realised what he was doing and pulled himself to a halt with an effort. A part of him screamed in protest as he stilled, and he was flooded with a sense of _wrongness_ that he couldn't explain.

He didn't have time to analyse it, though, as the wolf before him was transforming. Stiles couldn't keep his eyes off the form as it blurred, limbs extending and snout shrinking, fur receding into skin and knees cracking in directions that they really shouldn't be able to crack. Thankfully, it lasted only seconds, and the next thing Stiles knew there was a small boy sitting in the cage and Scott was falling silent.

The boy was maybe four years old at most. He was a scrawny little thing, limbs too long for his body, covered in dirt and completely naked. There was a mop of messy brown hair crowning his head, and his eyes were a familiar blue as he stared at Scott with wide, frightened eyes.

"Matt!" The voice cut through the sudden quiet and Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin as Jo stumbled past him, dropping the shotgun carelessly on the floor in favour of digging through her pockets. Her hand emerged with a ring of keys, and her whole body shook as she frantically flipped through them, searching for the right one. Finally, she found what she was looking for, and she unlocked the rusty padlock with a ferocious twist of her wrist before flinging the lock into a corner of the barn as she swung open the door.

The boy was sitting up, watching her with bewildered eyes. "Mummy?" he asked, and that did it. Stiles didn't think that his heart could break any further, but apparently it could. The kid's voice was tiny and confused, and Stiles had to turn away as Jo gathered him into her arms. He couldn't drown out her sobs, however, or the comforting nonsense sounds that she was making as she reunited with her son.

There were tears in his eyes again, and Stiles sniffed a little as he stared down at the dusty floor, counting his breaths and concentrating on calming his fluttering heart. It was a few moments before he realised that there was a light hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Lydia at his side, watching him with concerned eyes.

"Stiles, are you okay?" she asked hesitantly. Stiles gave a half-shrug. He had no idea how to answer that.

Instead, he changed the subject to the obvious issue at hand. "You guys should go," he said quietly.

Lydia's expression melted into one of surprise, and there were footsteps from behind him as Scott joined them, watching Stiles with alarm. "Stiles, what are you talking about?"

Stiles met Scott's eyes, a wild hysteria bubbling to the surface and exploding in a short burst of laughter. "History repeats itself, Scott," he said sardonically. Scott and Lydia were both looking at him like he was crazy and, well, maybe he was. "I killed someone," Stiles clarified. "My partner's inside the homestead with half his brain blown out, next to a man that I killed with my own service pistol. I need to call the Sheriff, and you guys can't be here when the cops arrive."

Lydia gripped Stiles' hand with her own while Scott shook his head, suddenly pale. "No, Stiles," Scott protested. "There has to be another way."

Stiles couldn't help a small choked sound as he pulled his hand out of Lydia's grasp. "That's what you never seem to get," he said, frustrated. "There's always a choice, but sometimes the other options are unthinkable."

Scott's eyes were moist and he shook his sound soundlessly. Stiles understood where he was coming from, but, really, Stiles had killed someone, there was no denying that. He had crossed far too many lines today to be allowed to walk free, and eventually justice would have to catch up with him.

"It's okay, Scott," Stiles said, and he desperately tried to believe it.

"There's another way."

The voice that had spoken was the last person he expected to hear, and Stiles turned to stare at Jo in surprise. Strange though it might seem, he had almost forgotten she was there. Her son was nestled safely in her arms, peering out at them with curious blue eyes, and she was watching them warily from where she sat just inside the cage. "Why can't we just let the dead bury the dead?"

Stiles stared, uncomprehending. "What?"

She licked her lips, meeting his eyes as she spoke. "I know you probably want to turn us in, but there's a way that we all walk away from this. Your friend figured out my dad was a murderer, and he came here to confront him. Things got violent, guns were drawn, and they killed each other. No one else was involved."

Stiles was already shaking his head before she finished. "There's no way that'll hold up in court," he pointed out. "It was my gun that killed your dad. And I sent Johnson a text before we left today, telling him where to meet me."

Jo seemed to consider his words. "The phone should be easy enough, a bit of water and it'll be dead. And what if there were eyewitness accounts? My mum, and myself. Why would we lie to cover you? It doesn't make sense."

"But what about the gun?"

Jo raised an eyebrow. "Is there any way that your friend could have gotten a hold of your weapon?"

Surprisingly, it was Lydia who spoke up, voice cautious from Stiles' side. "He could have taken it yesterday," she suggested. "After what happened with Luke. He was worried about you, everyone could see it."

Shocked, Stiles searched her face for a hidden meaning, but she actually seemed serious. Scott was nodding encouragingly and Jo was watching him with hope in her eyes. Stiles closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before shaking his head.

"No, what the hell are you saying? I can't believe we're even talking about this," he said vehemently. He turned to the one person who he knew he could trust to do the right thing. Maybe he just didn't realise what had happened. "Scott, I _killed_ someone. I tracked him down and came into his home for one reason, and one reason only. You can't just cover that up."

Scott flinched, but shook his head firmly. "No," he said. "I don't believe you."

Stiles blinked at him in confusion. "What?"

Scott held his gaze as he spoke. "Look, I don't know what happened before we got here. Maybe you really did come here with some idea of getting revenge, and maybe you were the one who pulled the trigger." He shrugged helplessly. "But I know you, Stiles. There's no way you went through with it deliberately. You don't have it in you to kill in cold blood, you never have."

Jo spoke up before Stiles had the chance to reply. "He's right," she said, voice shaky. She took a deep breath, seemingly coming to a decision before she continued. "I don't blame you, you know."

Stiles' eyes flicked up to her, brow furrowed with surprise. "You don't?"

Jo shook her head. "I mean, you're definitely not my favourite person. But I was there, I saw what happened," she explained, and there was something raw and honest in her voice that even Stiles couldn't deny.

"You terrified me when you first arrived - I thought you were going to kill us all. But you didn't. You hesitated, you listened. And when you realised what you were doing, you lowered your gun, even though Dad was still armed." Lydia's eyes burned into Stiles' cheek at the words, and he deliberately kept his gaze turned away from her. She could make of that statement what she wished.

"When Mum hit you, your hand just clenched reflexively. That's the whole reason why you're always taught to never startle someone with a gun – chances are, they're just going to squeeze the trigger. So blame yourself all you like, but Dad's dead because of an accident, nothing more."

Stiles' mind was reeling, and he couldn't make himself accept the words. "I came here to kill him," he repeated softly.

Jo never wavered, her eyes holding his own. "And part of me wants to kill you. Thoughts don't make you a murderer."

When Scott spoke, Stiles started in surprise. "Stiles, please, don't do this," Scott said, and his voice broke on the words. "There's been enough dead bodies and nothing you do is going to bring them back. No more lives need to be ruined over this."

Stiles shook his head soundlessly, but a part of him was wavering. "It's not right," he said, and for some reason it came out as more of a question than an argument.

Lydia spoke up, her eyes beseeching. "Stiles, think about what you're saying. I know you don't want to lie to your boss, but you're going to have to eventually either way. This is the only option that doesn't destroy a lot of people's lives in the process."

"What about the victims, though?" Stiles questioned. "Their families deserve an answer, they deserve justice."

Jo shrank back into her corner, tightening her hold on her son as though afraid she would never see him again. It was Scott who answered, however. "They won't get an answer, Stiles," he said gently. "They'll get lies, at best. And justice is one thing, but can you even prove that these people were behind the murders? Tracking them by scent isn't exactly admissible evidence."

Stiles shrugged helplessly, so Scott took a step closer and watched him carefully as he continued. "Stiles, the only certainty of turning yourself in is that you'll go to prison. And that's not justice – you never meant to hurt anyone."

He sound so sure, and Stiles was just so _tired_. His world had been torn apart, and he was scrabbling at straws, and it was just so hard to know what was right and what was wrong anymore. He could rely on Scott, though. Somehow, Scott had always known. "This is how we fix this?" he asked, voice surprisingly fragile.

Scott flinched at his words, and Stiles knew that he was remembering. There were creases around his eyes when he met Stiles' gaze and he suddenly looked much older than his years, but when he nodded he seemed decisive. "It's the best solution to a bad problem," he said, and that was it.

"Okay," Stiles breathed.

Scott held his gaze. "Okay."

* * *

 _If the sky comes falling down, for you, there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do. - Avicii_


	11. Epilogue

**A/N:** A big thanks to everyone who's stuck with me so far! I had a lot of fun writing this and I really hope you guys enjoyed reading it! I really appreciate every one of you, lurkers, reviewers and all. xox

* * *

 **Epilogue**

As they have a tendency to do, things got worse before they got better.

The week after _the incident_ , as Stiles had started calling it in his head (because otherwise he would be breaking down every five minutes and Lydia would _never_ stop watching him with those worried eyes), passed in something of a blur. There were a few moments that stood out – for one, struggling his way through a fabricated statement, trying to keep his answers as vague as possible as Brady studied him from across the table with a sceptical expression. For another, nearly having a second panic attack in the middle of the station, when he walked out of the interview room and was suddenly struck with the realisation that Johnson was really dead.

Fortunately, Scott was there. He had stuck close to Stiles since he found him at the barn, which was something that Stiles would have found strange if he had taken the time to analyse it. They hadn't spoken any further about what had happened, yet somehow the wound between them seemed to be bandaged if not healed. Stiles wasn't sure how long it would hold together, but he still couldn't help a surge of gratefulness when Scott managed to stop the panic attack before it even started with a combination of gentle eyes and concerned voice, and Stiles made it to the Sheriff's office with his dignity mostly intact.

The news of his suspension wasn't really unexpected, what with his service weapon now being Exhibit A in a double homicide investigation, so Stiles merely shrugged when the Sheriff made it through his piece. He didn't have a weapon to turn in anymore, so he dropped his badge on the desk with a one-sentence explanation and was taken by surprise when his boss crossed the room in three long steps to pull him into a fiercely unprofessional hug.

The Sheriff didn't try to talk Stiles into staying. Anyone else, and Stiles might have been offended, but he knew that the Sheriff understood that it would just be an endless nightmare of bad memories and haunted dreams.

Thankfully, Lydia took care of most of the funeral arrangements, so Stiles just had to show up and try to hold it together during a long day of condolences and meaningless platitudes. He didn't make a speech, and afterward he felt so drained that stumbled through the door to Lydia's motel room and collapsed onto the bed, falling into a fitful sleep. Then, the next morning, he woke up, put on the same suit, and did it all over again for Johnson.

Time started to flow properly again after that and Stiles fell into an odd rhythm with Scott and Lydia, the three of them whiling away the days doing anything that didn't involve discussing _the incident_. It wasn't until halfway into the third week that something happened. The three of them were flopped in various positions on the couch and floor, watching Arrested Development and playing a fiercely competitive game of spot-the-in-joke, when they were interrupted by a loud knock. Scott paused the DVD and opened the door to reveal a swarm of deputies in the hallway, arms laden with boxes. It was a few minutes before Stiles realised that they had packed up his house for him, and for the first time since _the incident_ his grief disappeared, completely washed away by gratitude.

Lydia was the first to mention moving, three days later. She was lying on her stomach on one of the beds, shoes kicked off and lips pursed as she studied the map spread out before her. Stiles and Scott were standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the kitchenette, swapping tips and snide criticisms as they prepared dinner. "So what do you think about California?" she interrupted, and Stiles looked up from his potatoes, eyes crinkled in confusion.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Lydia's lips twitched in the hint of a smile, and her voice was wistful as she replied. "I miss the sun," she said, "and the beaches. Plus, I'd like to be a bit closer to my mum. I don't get to see her nearly as much as I'd like."

The explanation didn't clarify anything as far as Stiles was concerned, but Scott nodded as though she was making perfect sense. "Sounds good," he replied. "I've been itching to move out of Beacon Hills but Mum would freak if I went too far away. Somewhere nearer to the coast would be nice, though."

Stiles stared at him, then turned his gaze back to Lydia, his rare content mood collapsing. "Oh," he said in a small voice. "Yeah. You guys should definitely do that."

He picked up his knife again and cut into the potatoes with a new level of ferociousness. He was so focussed on his work that he didn't see Scott and Lydia exchange exasperated looks over his head.

"Okay, if you're not keen on California, we could always shake things up a bit. Did you know I've never been to Chicago?"

"Really?" Scott responded with surprise. "And here I thought you were so well-travelled." His voice carried a teasing tone that Stiles hadn't heard in nearly a decade, and he swallowed past a lump in his throat as he pushed the knife through the potato so hard that it slammed into the cutting board with a loud crack.

Scott's voice was grave when he continued. "Of course, if you wanted to stay here, Stiles, we could do that too. We just thought a change of scenery might be good for you."

The words suddenly clicked into place, and Stiles froze. He slowly raised his head to look at Scott, but his expression was sincere, and Lydia was biting her lip as she watched him carefully. A small flame of affection lit up in Stiles' chest even as he shook his head in protest.

"Look, I appreciate what you're doing, and I don't want to be _that guy_ , but you guys can't just pack up your lives and move," he pointed out. "Don't you people have jobs?" A thought struck him, and he stared between the two of them, puzzled. "Wait a minute – _do_ you people have jobs? You've been in town for ages. Please don't tell me you're living off the Hale fortune or something."

Scott snorted, smiling slightly. "We have jobs, Stiles," he said, amused. "But I can work as a vet pretty much anywhere, and Lydia's research is mostly external to the university these days. She can do most of it from home."

Lydia nodded agreement and Stiles stared at them, flummoxed. "But what about your homes, your friends? You can't just abandon them."

"Sure we can," Lydia quipped in return. Stiles shook his head and she grew serious, green eyes burning into his own. When she spoke, her voice shook with intensity. "Stiles, don't you get it? This is more important. We've already lost you once and we came far too close to losing you a second time. Neither of us want to go through that again, so you can kick us out if that's what you need, but we're not going anywhere voluntarily."

Stiles stared, and Scott spoke up to fill the silence. "This isn't a spur-of-the-moment decision, Stiles. We've talked about it; this is what we want."

And okay, his friends were officially insane. "What, the three of us living together in a strange town in California, where Lydia works from home and I try to build an entirely new career from scratch?" Stiles' voice was scornful as he tried to convey the ridiculousness of the concept. Judging by his friends' expressions, he failed horribly.

"Yep," Scott responded cheerfully. "It'll be awesome, don't even try to deny that."

In that moment, Stiles finally understood, and he couldn't hold back a smile as warmth blossomed in his chest. He had been using the words, but he hadn't really realised until now. They really were _his friends_ , in every sense of the word and more.

They weren't old acquaintances. They weren't just his grade school crush and his childhood best friend. They'd seen the worst of him, exposed and on display, and yet somehow they were still here.

For the first time in what felt like far too long, Stiles felt the beginnings of hope.

* * *

(And if every now and then, Scott would make a familiar joke or Lydia would rattle off some scientific theory, then Stiles would sit outside until his chest stopped hurting and he ran out of tears.

It was a familiar path that he walked, one step at a time until the grief faded away, but they stayed by his side the whole time. And really, at the end of the day, he couldn't ask for anything more than that.)


End file.
